


Memento Mori

by ealcynn



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3850990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealcynn/pseuds/ealcynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a violent battle, Arthur's knights mourn one of their own. Meanwhile, Gawain struggles to get home; injured, lost, and alone north of the Wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dogs of War

**Author's Note:**

> Some bloody battle violence and descriptions of injuries. Rated for language in Chapter 2.
> 
> Complete, in 14 parts. Beta read by lady-roma.

The day was fine.

The golden chariot of the sun was blindingly bright as it travelled across the heavens. The blue dome of sky stretched high above, patterned with lightly scudding clouds. An ocean of green grass stretched into the haze of the distant mountains. On this rare day of fine autumn weather in Britain, the lands north of the Wall could almost look beautiful. If Gawain squinted, he could almost imagine he was home.

The Knight rolled his head to relieve the ache of tension in his neck and shoulders. As used as they all were to long hours in the saddle, the four day journey was wearying even the hardiest of Arthur's Sarmatians, and the ordinary Roman soldiers that made up the rest of their force looked ready to drop. There hadn't even been any decent fighting. Four days above the wall and not even the flash of a blue-painted arse. It was enough to make a man weep. Gawain needed something to take his mind off the tedium of the journey or he was going to go mad enough to start praying to Arthur's God. This little excursion to persuade the visiting General Arpagius of the dangers of the Woad enemy north of the wall was not becoming an unmitigated success. The General (although if the garrison talk was to be believed, the position was purely based on finances rather than talent) had already been overheard making insinuations about the courage of Artorius Castus against this 'invisible' enemy.

Gawain sighed, and thought jealously of Galahad and the others back at the fort with nothing to do. Tristan was scouting ahead, as usual. Bors seemed to be relating some lewd story to Perceval, the taller, slighter man listening with a smirk. Arthur rode slightly behind his Knights, between them and the Roman horsemen, and seemed lost in his own higher thoughts. No change there. And Kai and Lancelot...Gawain tried not to growl as he became aware that the two were bitching at each other. Again. Just as hitting the other Knights with his axe was starting to become a very enticing proposition, a figure on horseback appeared from between the distant trees ahead, and quickly moved towards them. Tristan was returning.

"Please tell me there are Woads," Gawain all but begged as Tristan rode up. "Because it would be a shame to have to kill Lancelot so close to home."

"Woads." The scout confirmed, sounding as calm as ever.

The word seemed to shake Arthur from his revere, and he quickly caught them up, looking to the scout. "Where?"

"Everywhere," said the Sarmatian, and threw his hawk up into the air.

"Good!" exclaimed Bors, and drew his knives with a flourish. "This trip has been so boring even gnawing my own nuts off was starting to sound like entertainment."

Kai looked less pleased by Tristan's news, and scowled towards the distant woods. "We're less than half a day from the Wall. Couldn't the bloody Woads wait another half a day?"

Lancelot added his own opinion; "Well if there's an option between looking at an ugly blue army that's trying to kill me or looking at your face any longer, Kai, I know which I'll choose..."

Kai growled, "Maybe one of them will just gut you, Lancelot, and save me the trouble..."

"Enough," laughed Gawain, as though he hadn't been considering a similar thing himself not long before. "Let's just try and all get out alive, alright? Then you can kill Lancelot later, to your heart's content."

To no-one's surprise, both Knights shut up. They always did, when Gawain told them to. Sometimes even Arthur wished for that talent.

Just at that moment, a great shrieking howl rose up from the trees, and the branches began to move as if a great wind battered it.

"Here they come!" said Arthur, grimly. Gawain watched the General Arpagius, turning his horse about and shouting furious, and contradictory, instructions at his troops.

"Amateurs," sneered Lancelot.

"Aren't you going to go over there and sort them out?" asked Perceval.

Arthur eyed the bragging Roman official. "No." He said. "I wouldn't want to impose on the General after all."

"Good," nodded Lancelot. "There's hope for you yet, Arthur."

The Knights all shared a grim smile, and with no instruction from Arthur needed, rode easily into formation and drew their blades as one, just as a volley of Woadish arrows flew from the trees. The Sarmatians were easily far back enough to be out of range, though one unfortunate Roman who had strayed too close to the woods fell from the saddle with a shriek. Gawain had time to consider how pleasant it was to not be fighting in the pissing rain for once, then the first wave of natives burst from the trees, and there was no time for thought.

"Rus!" came the battle cry, and the Knights’ horses leapt forwards, the Roman ones just behind. The neat formation lasted about ten heartbeats before the two lines of foes clashed and all became the chaos of battle.

A Woad snarled at Gawain and he hacked down at it with his axe as he passed, the man's head sliced from his body. Gawain couldn't help the thrill that passed through him at the death and was too jaded to be disgusted by it any more. He didn't embrace the killing, like Tristan and Lancelot did, but it was part of him all the same. He would never be rid of it. Two more Britons were running at his horse, slashing at the beast trying to bring it down; they were dead before their blades even touched it. Gawain swung the horse around; he hewed a Woad in the face, and threw the axe straight into the chest of another as it aimed a bow at Perceval’s back. He drew his sword with a wordless shout. The blood sang in his ears and this, this was battle. This was his life, and he didn't know what he would do without it. They all longed for freedom, but when they had peace, all they wanted was war. More death, more killing. They were all blood-stained now.

Just at that moment, Tristan rode passed like a shadow, his sword slicing neatly across a standing Woad. The native staggered back screaming blood, and his body fell beneath Gawain's horse; the beast shied back unexpectedly, and Gawain was suddenly unbalanced. He pulled sharply at the reigns, but it was unfortunate that it was at that moment of instability, an arrow bursting from nowhere struck his body, and the impact knocked the Knight straight from the saddle. He hit the ground, hard.

Winded and dazed, it took him a moment to gather his wits, and barely in time. A shadow loomed over him and he rolled, just as the axe blade struck the earth where his skull had been moments before. Gawain pushed down the stabbing agony of the arrow wound and looked up at his foe, one of the biggest Woads he had ever seen. The native roared and struck down with the axe again; Gawain rolled back the other way and scrambled up to his feet, cursing his encumbering cloak that wrapped about his legs. He cursed again when he realised the impact with the ground had shaken his sword loose from his hand. His horse had fled, and the arrow in his shoulder seemed to have stopped his left arm from working all together. He was in trouble.

Gawain saw the light of battle in his enemy's eyes as the Woad realised the Knight was injured and helpless, and moved in for the kill, snarling. Gawain waited until the giant was just close enough, lowered his stance to pull the long bladed knife from its scabbard at his shin, and slashed outwards in one smooth movement. He had to leap back a moment later to avoid the native's strike, but his own had already worked, blade scoring a deep cut in the native's hand, and the Woad dropped his sword with a yell. Not wasting seconds to pick it up, and growling with fury, the Woad drew his own knife in his left hand and swung round, slashing at Gawain's neck. The Knight parried the blow and cut back at the Woad's face.

The fight was fast and dirty, but too soon, Gawain began to weaken. He glanced aside to see if any of the other Knights were nearby, but their fight had taken them away from the rest of the battle. The moment's inattention was nearly fatal; the Knight was forced to duck down to avoid a slash at his eyes and dizziness instantly assailed him. His own return strike at the Woad's body was weak and barely scored the blue-stained flesh. Blood loss was slowing his reactions, and he didn't move back fast enough as the Woad punched out with his free hand and his fist connected with Gawain's mouth. Dazed and bleeding, Gawain stumbled backwards, and the Woad swung forwards with a triumphant roar, and stabbed the knife blade up and into his abdomen. Gawain gave a weak cry and almost blacked out, and suddenly he was on his back looking up helpless at the enemy above him. Black spots assailed his vision, and he knew he didn't have long, either way. The Woad spat at him, and loomed over, lifting his knife to cut out the Knight's throat and leave him to bleed to death, as Gawain had seen too many times before.

He would not die like that.

With his last strength, Gawain's hand reached out, grasped the hilt of the Woad's sword that lay on the ground beside him and surged upwards with a wordless shout. The blade struck home, punching straight through the giant's eye and into his brain. The man was killed instantly, and the corpse toppled like a fallen tree onto the Knight below him. But Gawain was unaware of his victory; his consciousness had already fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming on this adventure. Feedback is love.


	2. Insubordination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle violence, descriptions of injuries, and bad language

The shades of evening began to creep across the rolling hills. Shadows lengthened under trees as the dying sun slowly set in a burnt orange sky. Torches and candles began to flicker up along the Wall, and as evening drew on, the fort of Camboglanna began to come alive. Up on the Wall top, the last three of Artorius’ Knights lounged around a beer flagon and a dice cup. The last four days had been as equally boring for them, if somewhat more comfortable.

“A three and a five,” said Galahad, as he tipped the dice out. He was losing. Dagonet took the cup and dice in silence, and spun it around twice before tipping the bone cubes onto the stone step.

“Two sixes.” He pronounced. Ector laughed at Galahad gaping expression.

“How do you do that?” the younger Knight demanded. “Every time!”

Ector took a long drink from the beer jug and passed it down to Dagonet from his perch on the wall top. “He’s probably weighted the dice, whelp.”

Dagonet’s face was still impassive. Galahad hefted the dice in his hands anyway, just to check the weight, although he was sure Dagonet would never be part of anything underhand. Probably.

“You owe me a new knife, Galahad.”

Galahad groaned, and shot Ector a dark look as the man continued to snigger.

“I’m never playing you at dice again, Dagonet.”

“And you never stopped to wonder why nobody else will play him either?”

Galahad scowled. “You’re not making any friends here, Ector...”

“Best of three?” suggested Dagonet with a predatory smile, when all three heard the distant but unmistakable sound of horses on the road. Arthur’s Knights had returned.

“About time!” exclaimed Galahad and climbed carefully to his feet. Dagonet pocketed the dice and the two joined Ector peering over the wall. The column of approaching riders was barely lit by the wall torches, and seemed like a great dark shadow sweeping across the plain.

“Open the gates!” came the sentry’s cry from below.

Ector stretched, lazily. “Right, I’ll be off down to the stables. See you gentlemen later.” Ector was always on hand to help with the horses when riders returned to the wall. The dark man had a way with horses like no other, and seemed to revel in their company.

“To the tavern, then?” Galahad suggested. “The others will be there soon; Bors will be battering down the door to see Vanora and some ale before too long.”

Dagonet nodded. “The others won’t be far behind.”

Galahad’s ankle twinged a little as they descended the steps but he ignored it. The injury was one of the reasons he’d been left at the fort in the first place; it was just a little ligament damage obtained while falling into a ditch and it was mostly healed. He had been determined it would be healed by the time Arthur returned. He tried not to glower. Stupid bloody ditch.

“D’you think they managed to abandon that Roman stick-in-his-arse General somewhere? Like in the middle of a marsh? Or a Woad infested forest?”

Dagonet smiled, teeth glinting white in the darkness.

“Who knows?” He said, “But I’m pretty sure Lancelot and Kai had something in mind.”

Galahad was laughing when just at that moment, a Roman legionnaire came hurrying around the corner, leading two horses, and something about the man’s manner stopped both men in their tracks. He was too tense, and not in an “I’ve-been-riding-for-four-days-and-I’m-seriously-saddlesore” kind of way. The man’s pose screamed “everything’s-got-ballsed-up-and-my-superiors-are-pissed-off-and-we’re-all-going-to-suffer.”

Something was wrong.

The legionnaire saw them approach but didn’t stop.

“Woad attack.” He said tersely. “There’s injured.”

Galahad stopped in his tracks. A few moments ago he had been laughing. Now it felt like there was a whole winter’s worth of ice inside him.

“Any dead?” asked Dagonet, in his calm way. The soldier shrugged and moved away towards the stables.

“Come on,” said Dag, and the pair hurried on, all thoughts of taverns and dice long gone. Of course it was not the first time. Too many of them had been carried bleeding back to the fort and did not wake up the next day. Too many fell to the rot of infection, or sickness or even just the cold of a harsh winter. Too many rode out from the wall and just never came back. Some of the other Knights seemed to just not to think about it. Lived for the moment, never wondered if today would be the last time they’d see their friends. Galahad smothered it all in deep hot anger. One day he would be free. One day, no-one else would have to die. Until that moment came he got by through hating Rome and hating the Woads with a burning intensity. Gawain never approved.

Dagonet and Galahad ran into Jols by the barracks, and the man stopped immediately.

“It’s Arthur,” Jols said, without preamble, and the anxiety in his face told them everything, and Galahad’s heart did a somersault. “They’ve taken him to the infirmary,” he added, but gestured back towards the gate house. “Dagonet, you’ve got to get out there, there’s going to be a riot.”

There was no time to ask for clarification. Jols ran off towards the Valetudinarium, and at that moment, they clearly heard the sound of raised voices, and Bors above all, shouting blue murder. The two Knights ran, Galahad ignoring each stab of pain in his ankle as they pelted round the corner to the courtyard.

‘Riot’ just about did it justice. Four Knights were surrounded by a small battered contingent of Roman legionnaires, most of whom looked either shocked or angry. Bors and Kai were face to face with a bloodied Arpagius, both trembling with suppressed rage, and shouting. Perceval was trying unsuccessfully to hold the halter of a rearing, frightened horse, and Tristan, gods, the man actually had his knife drawn and looked about to start cutting throats. They barely arrived in time; Bors swung his first back to punch General Arpagius in the face, and Dagonet just managed to grab Bors arms and haul his cousin back out of danger of corporal punishment.

“Dag! You bastard, let go!”

“Calm down, Bors. That won’t help.”The bigger man said quietly and held his cousin for a few moments more before slowly releasing him. Bors pulled away, he wasn’t calm but at least he wasn’t hitting people any more. He returned to verbally abusing the General in the Sarmatian tongue instead.

“You arrogant little shit! I’m gonna-"

“You had better listen to your friend.” The General said in Latin, voice tight, and Galahad wondered if that had something to do with the bloodied nose he already sported. Had one of the Knights already hit him? “All of you. Stand down, now! Or you’ll be joining the other one.”

“What other one?” demanded Galahad of the Knights, striding into the circle. “What’s going on?”

“He had Lancelot arrested!” yelled Kai, clenching his fists.

“What!?”

“You listen to me.” Arpagius snarled, clearly guessing the course of the Sarmatian’s conversation even though he couldn’t understand it. “I don’t know what kind of circus Artorius thinks he’s running here, but I will not take insubordination in my army, and make no mistake, this is my army! You!”

He pointed at Dagonet.

“You understand Latin? Good, because you seem to be the only one capable of recognising authority here. You’re responsible for this farce of a cavalry as of now. Understand?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“I will let this evening pass as the men are clearly upset and ill-used to proper discipline, but the next instance of insubordination I hear I’ll have that whelp in gaol publicly flogged. You hear me?”

Tristan stepped forwards, until he was about ten paces from the man, and slowly pointed his knife blade at the General. “You hear me,” he said, in quietly accented Latin. “You deserve to die today for what you’ve done. Touch a hair on Lancelot’s head or threaten a Knight ever again, and you will. Understand?”

The General looked at the scout, his eyes bugging slightly, then he turned without a word and strode away into the fort. The legionnaires followed, leaving the Knights alone.

Bors let out a great yell of fury and hurled his knife at the wall where it stuck, before kicking a barrel over with another wordless roar. Kai just crouched down on the ground in the middle of the courtyard where he stood, his arms wrapped around his chest and breathing ragged. Perceval had finally calmed the horse, and stood, leaning against the white mare’s saddle, swearing profusely with tears running down his face. Tristan was silent.

“What happened?” asked Dagonet, looking around.

“It’s Arthur.” Galahad guessed, feeling dazed. “He’s not going to make it, is he?”

“Arthur’ll recover,” said Kai, his voice oddly muffled. “Got himself a broken arm and concussion is all.”

Suddenly Galahad realised what had been staring him in the face all along, why the whole situation had gone to shit so quickly. Who wasn’t there to help Dag calm everyone down. Who’s panicked horse Perceval was holding.

“Where’s Gawain?” he demanded. There was silence for a moment, and that had already answered his question before Tristan could.

“He’s dead. A Woad shot him.”

Galahad heard a strange ringing in his ears, a light dizziness. What had Tristan said?

“No,” he shook his head. “No.”

“Where is he?” asked Dagonet, equally quietly. As well as their field-healer, the practical man was normally the one who prepared dead Knights for vigil and funeral.

“Where is he?” shouted Bors, rounding on them. “Where is he!? Only bloody crow meat! Only sport for the fucking Woads to piss on or mutilate!”

“Bors...” said Kai.

“We had to leave him!” cried Perceval, voice breaking with burning fury and grief. “That Roman bastard wouldn’t even let us wait to find his body. Arthur was down, Arpagius wouldn’t listen.” He gave a vicious laugh. “Lancelot broke the bastard’s nose for it.”

Dagonet seemed to slump back against the wall, but Galahad barely noticed.

“Gawain...” he said quietly, dazedly. “Gawain is dead.”

There was silence.

“What the fuck do we do now?” said Kai.

 

~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC.....


	3. Carrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle violence, descriptions of injuries, language

There was a sharp pain in his face. It was not the all consuming and unrelenting agony of his battle wounds but this other pain that finally woke him. It was a strange, horrible sensation, like sharp knives tapping at his skin, and Gawain opened his eyes with a groan. The crow that had been pecking at his face gave a sharp cark of annoyance. Filled with sudden horror, Gawain gave a wordless shout and flailed out with his arm. The bird croaked loudly at the rude interruption to its meal and flew off, a flutter of dark feathers.

Now fully conscious, Gawain began to take in his surroundings. He recognised hard earth and stones beneath his back, the stench of death in the air, the cry of the carrion birds. He’d woken up on enough battle fields to recognise those signs. The second thing he noticed was that he was still alive. Unexpected, but good. Time to keep it that way; there could still be enemies about. With a gasp of agony he went to move, and came up short against the weight on his chest. Blinking the blood and long hair from his eyes, he finally became aware of the giant dead Woad lying stinking on top of his body. The corpse had bleed like a stuck pig all over him, and it was that that had attracted the carrion birds. Disgusted, Gawain rolled the body off his as much as he could, and painfully pushed himself upright until he was sitting.

The Knight sat there for a while, forcing down the dizziness. Eventually he felt steady enough to move, and ran his hand to his shoulder first. The arrow shaft had been snapped off at some point in the battle, and now only an inch or so was visible, still attached to the arrowhead. Sickness coiled in his stomach when his fingers knocked the wood embedded in his flesh. It hurt like mad but at least it wasn’t bleeding too badly. He didn’t need to pull back his armour to see the same was not true of the abdominal stab wound; dark blood was already soak liberally into the leather of his plated brigandine, and his under-tunic. It was, strangely enough, at that moment that he noticed the third thing about his surroundings. The silence.

Well, not quite silence. There was the croak of the ravens, the whistle of the wind. But no clash of weapons, no cries of ‘ _Rus!’_ from Bors. No shrieks from the dying Britons or hooves of horses. The battle was over, and it had ended in silence.

That was impossible. That would mean...

No! He could not be the only one left!

_Please..._

Fear finally did what pain could not, and he staggered to his feet, right hand pressed loosely against the bleeding gash in his side, and looked about. The sun was just setting; evening was nearly upon him already. Gawain stared towards the battle field, and was surprised to realise his own fight had taken him behind a small rise and he could see nothing of the main field. Slowly, painfully, he stumbled to the summit of the mound and looked out, desperate not to see the bodies of his brothers lying upon the field.

He did not. There _were_ Woad corpses, scattered across the ground. Patches of blood on the grass; two dead horses, broken weapons. There was not one body of Knight, or Roman. Gawain looked out across that field of devastation and felt only relief. Then, his breath hitched in his chest as a sudden horrible truth struck him. There were no dead Knights. _But there were no living ones either._ They were gone. The only sign of their passing was fifty Woad corpses and a trail of hoof prints in the dust of the road, leading away towards the south.

And one blond Knight, bleeding and abandoned.

They had left him behind.

_They had left him behind._

Gawain felt suddenly lightheaded, but tried to keep calm. They’d left him behind. Why would they do that?

 

The Roman force clearly hadn’t been defeated or their corpses would be here. Arthur hadn’t sent for reinforcements as then he would have stayed to hold the ground. The Knights hadn’t been captured by the Woads either. The natives would have taken their own dead too, and probably killed the cavalry not worth ransom.

They had left him behind.

The practical part of Gawain vaguely noticed then that they’d taken his horse too. Bastards.

He swayed slightly on his feet as he realised he was deep trouble.

First things first, Gawain told himself – stay alive. The Sarmatian slowly crossed the edge of the open battlefield and began to limp towards the trees. As much as he wanted to stay right where in was in case the other Knights had somehow made a mistake and came back for him, he knew he couldn’t risk it. It would be dark soon, and the Woads would come to claim their dead. He planned to be long gone by then.

With the only piece of good luck he’d had in a long time, Gawain managed not to trip over the sword lying in the grass. He expected his own sword was stuck in a Woad body somewhere, but beggars can’t be choosers. This sword was longer than the short leaf-bladed weapon he usually used, but it was undamaged, and any weapon was better than none at all. He had to peel his blood soaked hand away from the stab wound to pick the sword up, but it was worth it, just to be armed again. He slid the blade into the empty axe loop on his belt.

“Now, Gawain,” he murmured. “Get outta sight. Trees might be full of Woads but they’re still better cover than an open field.”

Walking proved to be more difficult than he anticipated. His left arm hung uselessly from the injured shoulder, throwing him strangely off balance, and each step pulled agonisingly the stab wound. By the time he reached the trees, he was coated in a cold sweat and the light was fading fast. He would have to stop and treat the injuries now, before he lost firstly the light and secondly, consciousness.

Gawain looked up through his curtain of hair, and glanced around the shadow flecked darkness beneath the trees. He spotted saw a clump of bushes close by; it was a piss-poor hiding place, but better than nothing. He pushed the shrub aside with his good shoulder and found a small hollow inside. It would do.

Now the Knight paused, ideas beginning to dry up. He had lost a lot of blood. This wasn’t anywhere near the worst injury Gawain had ever suffered, but it was the worst he’d suffered alone, and miles from help. He needed to treat the wounds, but with no supplies and only one functioning arm, didn’t know where to begin.

Eventually he chose the stab wound, as that was bleeding worse. Close inspection revealed that maybe luck had once again, not entirely deserted him after all; the armour plates riveted to his brigandine had done their job; the Woad’s blade had skidded aside over the metal scale before catching beneath one and punching through the tunic. That probably weakened the strength of the blow enough that he was now walking and breathing rather than spilling his guts for the crows. That didn’t mean it wasn’t still dangerously deep.

Inspection complete, Gawain set about binding the wound. He unfastened the large twin disc brooches that held his cloak pinned to his shoulders and pulled the heavy yellow fabric onto his lap. Cutting strips of cloth proved to be highly awkward, but he could still grip with the left hand even if the arm wouldn’t function. Using the tip of the long sword he’d stolen and his teeth, the Knight managed to tear the heavy wool into bindings. There was no way he was going to be able to remove his  armour or tunic even if he wanted to, so Gawain settled for pushing wads of material under the brigandine against his wounded side, then wrapping longer strips round his abdomen. Finally, he clinched his belt a little tighter to try and hold the dressings in place.

He felt breathless and dizzy, but did not dare stop before he was finished in case he passed out. Gawain touched the wooden arrow shaft in his left shoulder again. From the way he couldn’t move his arm, the Sarmatian guessed the arrow had shattered the collar bone and damaged the muscle too. There was nothing he could do about it here; the projectile was actually stopping the wound bleeding more so there was no point removing it. He was fairly sure he couldn’t afford to lose much more blood.

With shaking hands, Gawain tied the last cut cloak strips into a loop and wrapped it loosely around his left wrist and then passed it over his head. The sling was basic but just about functioned, and Gawain imagined the look on Dagonet’s face if he saw it.

“Sorry, Dag.” He muttered, leaning back against a tree trunk and pulling the now raggedy but still functional cloak around him. Cold, blood loss and exhaustion took hold, and he passed out.

 

 

~~~


	4. One by One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bloody battle violence, descriptions of injuries, and bad language.

The Knights had gravitated to the tavern that night. Not because anyone wanted to drink or wench, or had anything to celebrate. There was just nowhere else to go.

A group of off duty Romans had been drinking and laughing in the tavern when the Knights had arrived. Kai drew his knife, and Bors snarled “Out!”, and despite most of the Knights hoping desperately that they would not so they had an excuse to punch someone, the soldiers had fled without a backward glance.

The Roman General Arpagius might have been stupid, but even he had not dared to try and give orders to the Sarmatians in Arthur’s absence. Not on a night like tonight. Not when he had issued the commands that had led directly to three of their own being missing. Commands that put Lancelot in prison, Arthur in the infirmary, and Gawain’s body at the mercy of the Woads.

Rome was taking them, one by one.

The Knights sat in silence, grief and fury warring on every face. Galahad looked up to see Dagonet approaching from the _Valetudinarium_. The gentle giant was the closest thing the Sarmatians had to a healer, and no injured Knight was left to the mercy of the fort’s medicus without Dagonet watching over them.

“He’ll live,” said the big man, without preamble, “though he’s still unconscious.”

The Knights nodded. They were beyond relieved, though no one could show it yet. Arthur meant everything to them.

“And Lancelot?” asked Tristan, who was standing a little way away in the shadows of the wall.

Dagonet shrugged. “They won’t let me see him. Arpagius probably won’t release him until Arthur wakes up and orders it. Don’t know when that’ll be. Arthur won’t lose the arm, though it’s badly broken. Medicus said it would have been different if he hadn’t gotten back here so quickly.” Having said his piece, Dagonet sat.

“And much good that did Gawain,” muttered Kai.

The tension that had dipped at the news of Arthur’s immanent recovery notched back up again. That was the reason Arpagius had given for ordering the Knights back to the fort; Artorius was injured, he needed a healer immediately. No time to hunt for the body of one unkempt barbarian slave bastard that had been useless enough to get himself gutted by a single Woad. Arthur’s injury was also the only reason the Knights had agreed to leave, but that had only been after Lancelot had hauled off and punched the Roman in the face for those comments, got himself arrested, and after Arpagius had threatened to do the same to the rest of them if they didn’t head back to Camboglanna immediately. Anyone would think he was scared of a few Woads. No-one doubted that had it come to a fight, the Knights would have wiped the floor with the legionnaires; but afterwards, the Romans would not rest until every one of the Sarmatians was hunted down and slaughtered for it, and that would have broken Arthur’s heart. And a battle would have wasted time Arthur might not have. So they had left Gawain and turned back to the fort, for Arthur. They truly were slaves to the beast that was Rome.

 “I’m going to kill him,” Galahad said darkly, staring towards the _Praetorium_ where Arpagius no doubt dined in guilt-free comfort. “He won’t be expecting it and then I’ll...”

“Shut up, Pup,” said Perceval, wearily. “No-one’s going to kill anyone.”

“Oh yeah?” demanded Galahad, spoiling for a fight. “He threatened Lancelot, you all heard it! Why aren’t we doing something about it?”

“Galahad, you’re thicker than baked horse shit,” said Bors, downing the rest of the ale. “Ain’t nothing we can do. You know what the Romans do to deserters.”

“I could cut his eyes out and make it look like an accident,” Tristan offered. “Might do it anyway.”

“No-one is doing anything!” snapped Ector. “He’s a Roman, don’t be so bloody stupid! We wait for Arthur, we don’t betray him by killing Romans as soon as he’s down.”

“Betrayal?” Galahad shouted. “You want to talk about betrayal?”

“Pup...” growled Bors, warningly.

“I wasn’t the one that left Gawain out there!”

Kai pushed the chair back with a scrape, and stood up, furious, Bors right beside him. “You’d better watch your mouth, Galahad...”

“You think we would have left if we could have done anything else for Gawain?” Bors shouted. “You think we betrayed him? Maybe should come closer and say that!”

“At least some of us were out there fighting, and not limping around at the Wall with a twisted ankle,” said Tristan, scornfully.

Galahad swung round to punch the scout, and Kai leapt forward to join the fray just as another voice rang out across the courtyard.

“Stop!”

 The furious Knights pulled up short as Vanora appeared between Galahad and Tristan. The small red-headed woman, tavern owner and mother of Bors’ eight children was glowering more terrifyingly than any bloodthirsty Woad.

“Stop!” She shouted again, “All of you! I’ll not have fighting in my tavern. It’s too late. You think Gawain would want this?”

“We don’t know what Gawain would want, because unfortunately, he’s dead!” said Galahad bitterly, but the desire to pick a fight was already fading in him. He remembered Gawain’s good humour, his ability to cool any situation, calm the other Knights out of anger with just with a laugh or a joke. Gawain would not want this.

“We will perform the rites,” said Dagonet, quietly. “We don’t need his body. He died in battle, and Valkyr will claim him, with honour. His sword can stand monument in his mound, even if the mound is empty.”

“We don’t have his sword,” said Tristan. “It’s still on the battle field.”

There was a tense silence.

“What if he wasn’t dead?” said Perceval suddenly, and his voice sounded choked. “What if he was injured, and he bled to death because we left him out there? We killed him.”

“No,” said Bors. “Rome killed him.”

Vanora nodded. “Now,” she said. “No more fighting. Or you can find some other shithole to get pissed in, understand?”

There were nods and the Knights slowly sat.

“I’ll get you some more ale.” She said, squeezed her lover’s shoulder and walked away.

There was silence for a moment, before a shadow detached itself from the wall.

“I’m going back,” said Tristan. “I’m going back to find him. Tomorrow. Come, if you want.”

And he was gone.

~~~

Gawain was woken by a raindrop falling onto his nose. He wiped the cold water from his face with a groan, and cracked open swollen eyelids, peering through his tangled mane of hair. The forest around was lit grey by a dull daylight, heavy rainclouds above casting the ground into gloomy arboreal shadow. The lulling patter of raindrops onto the leaves all around seemed to be mocking the parched dryness of his mouth and throat.

Memory returned slowly, and Gawain tried to move, groaning at the stiffness in his cold limbs and joints. He must have slept the whole night through without moving once. The armour might have dug uncomfortable groves in his skin as he slept, but at least it was keeping him a little bit warmer. The Knight sat up very slowly, swearing hoarsely as agony awoke too, sending knives of fire through his side and shoulder. He froze, breathing slowly to let the pain pass. Cautiously, Gawain peeled back his brigandine. Blood had seeped through the cloths he’d packed about the wound last night, but they weren’t sodden yet. The bleeding had slowed at last.

“Well Gawain...now what?” he asked out loud, his voice emerging as a croak from his dry mouth.

Get back to the wall. That was obvious, and if he didn’t get there soon, he’d never make it. He was pretty sure they’d been half a day’s ride north from the wall when Tristan had spotted the Woads. That meant about fifteen miles, give or take. So on foot and in prime condition he could do it in a day. As he was now, who knew? Two days? Three?

Gawain sighed, but it wasn’t in his nature to complain about things he had no power to change, or to whinge about the inevitable. Except for the weather of course.

“Better get moving then. Won’t get anywhere sitting around on your arse.”

Numbly, slowly, Gawain pulled his knees under him and pushed himself up onto his feet. He could stand. Good. The Knight took a moment to pin his tattered cloak back on to his shoulders one handed as he considered what to do now. Should he stay in the woods, or try and get back to the open land? There were probably Woads in the forest, so if he left it, he’d be less likely to encounter them. But on the plains he’d be far more visible, in the woods he might be able to stay concealed. In the end, it was the rain that decided him. He’d travel south through the trees until the rain stopped.

He really, really hated rain.

“Alright Gawain,” he said, and spared an idle thought to wonder if talking to yourself wasn’t normally considered a Bad Thing. Tough. If talking to himself got in back to the Wall, he’d put up with the funny looks later.

“Alright. The Wall is south.” He paused. “Which way is south?” It was completely cloudy above the trees, no sun to guide him. He vaguely recalled Tristan once telling him how you could tell your way by looking at which side of the tree moss grew on. He eyed the tree he leaned against; the entire trunk was so thickly grown with lichen and moss that it looked like a carpet.

“Thanks, Tristan. Thanks a lot.”  
  
With another sigh, Gawain took a wild guess and set off.

 

 

~~~


	5. Reasons

The squirrel scampered across the forest floor. The sweet acorns littered the ground beneath the great oak, and the squirrel was delighted by the unexpected feast. Suddenly, a noise in the undergrowth nearby startled it, and the squirrel froze, trail twitching slightly. Another crash and a harsh exclamation broke the forest air and the little animal was gone, darting up into the tree and away.

“Bloody forest!” If the Knight didn’t know better, he’d say every tree root in the place was actually attempting to trip him deliberately, hidden beneath a light covering of early autumn leaves. Or perhaps he was just too tired to lift his feet properly. He was aching, exhausted and colder than he could remember. Gawain knew that blood loss was probably responsible for most of the above, and for his raging thirst too, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. The big man had managed to get a mouthful of rain water by standing in a clearing, but it had done little more than wet his mouth, as well as his face, hair and all his clothing.

He stumbled on, left arm bound up and right hand pressed tightly to his abdomen. He had no idea if it was still bleeding, but it hurt like hell. On the plus side, the rain had finally lessened, and the sun slipped from the trees. Gawain was more than a little relieved to realised he had been going to right direction. South. South towards the Wall and safety. South towards his brother Knights.

“Bastards,” Gawain muttered at the thought, and felt a tightening of unreasonable betrayal in his heart. They’d left him. Arthur and Bors and Lancelot and all of them had just left him. The thought spun dizzyingly in his mind. Why? Why did they do that? There must be a reason, a good one. They didn’t leave Knights behind. It was one of the first things they’d come to learn in the early days. The Commanders mostly hated them, Rome didn’t give a shit if they lived or died. All those frightened boys from Sarmatia had were each other. Well, before Arthur that is, and then everything changed. But they had learned; you do not leave people behind, because one day it would be you out there, and in that circumstance every Knight wanted to be damn sure someone would find them, even if all they came back with was your body. And they had never broken that unspoken promise. Apart from once. Tor. Gawain shuddered with cold and offered a silent prayer to Valkyr, keeper of the dead. Tor had been dragged from the battle field by Woads, They’d searched for a week, killed every blue skinned native they could get their blades into, but they’d never found Tor’s body. That had been eight years ago now.

Why had they left Gawain? He could think of a few reasons why Arthur and the Sarmatians had ridden back to the wall without searching for him, and he didn’t like any of them. He hoped desperately that his brother Knights were alright. As he tripped on another tree root, he wondered if he’d ever find out.

~~~

Lancelot lay on the hard wooden pallet and fumed. He was furious. Furious at his forefathers for selling them into this slavery, furious at Rome for dragging them to this nasty little island. Furious at Arpagius for being a coward, and at Arthur for getting injured. Furious at Gawain for dying. And, furious at himself for losing control. If he hadn’t punched the Roman, there was a chance he might have persuaded Arpagius to let some of the Knights stay and search for the dead Knight. But the sight of Arthur, unconscious and bleeding, combined with Arpagius’s sneering insults about Gawain had been too much, and his temper, fiery at best, had engulfed him. He was sure he had felt the bastard’s nose crack under his fist. Good.

He got up and started to pace the small room. He was too angry still to sit down for long. He’d been dragged into the gaol last night as soon as they got back to the fort, and completely ignored from then on. It must be nearly midday now. The room wasn’t really a gaol, more of a small storeroom with a strong door, but was always useful for imprisoning insubordinate soldiers, or troublemakers from the town around the fort. Lancelot wasn’t a stranger there, having been locked up several times when he was younger for general drunken disorderliness, usually involving a fight with some legionnaires. Oh, he’d fought with the other Knights too, more than once; eleven years is a long time to be stuck with the same men day in and out. But the Sarmatians soon learned to deal with their own problems without involving Romans, and the Wall officers had never cared what the barbarian cavalry did, as long as they fought and died when commanded.

Until Arthur. Lancelot sat again, and scrubbed at his face and beard with one hand. Arthur was different. For some ridiculous, unfathomable reason, Arthur cared. And the Sarmatians, who had spent so many years hating Rome suddenly found there were reasons other than just survival to fight. Oh, they had none of them subscribed to the man’s unquestioning _Romanitas_ or his faith in his God, they’d all seen too much done in both their names for that. But there was one thing every Knight did come to believe in, and that was in Arthur himself. The Roman who fought beside barbarians; the Christian who cared for the pagans. The one man from that entire arrogant empire who tried to understand rather than just to conquer and rule. He had even learned the Sarmatian trade dialect the Knights spoke between themselves so he could communicate with them, rather than just forcing them to speak Latin as their past commanders had done. Lancelot didn’t believe in Arthur’s idealised Rome of peace and justice, but Arthur’s belief in it was so strong it rubbed off on his Knights too; and when you listened to him talk, the whole idea of a society of free, equal men just seemed a little bit less ridiculous. He knew and loved all of his men, and they loved him in response. They would follow him into death and beyond, if he asked it of them. Lancelot wondered how unstoppable the Roman Empire would be with someone like Arthur at its head. What would happen to the Knights if Arthur died from his injuries? Was he already dead? Would the bloody Romans even bother to let Lancelot know?

And Gawain...No! Lancelot didn’t want to think about Gawain, another pointless death, more blood on the hands of Rome. And for the Knights, another empty seat at the round table, another brother who would never return to see the home he dreamed of. Worrying about Arthur had given him something else to think about, but now his thoughts had turned returned unbidden to Gawain. Gawain...what would they do without Gawain? Lancelot had loved the man, all the Sarmatians did. Even most of the Romans got on with the blond Knight, he was easy to like, and respect. He was a lethal fighter, combining the speed of Ector with the aggression of Bors to create his own deadly style, and he was unusual of all the Knights in that he was able to quickly master, and not be just proficient, at nearly any weapon he tried, from spear to bow, mace or axe. But Gawain was more than just a soldier, an axe and a sword; that was a Roman way of thinking. Gawain was a laugh or a jest at the right time to ease their tensions. He was easy conversation, and unquestioning, undemanding loyalty, to both Arthur and his brother Sarmatians. He was kind blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled and a generous heart to all the new Knights and a fierce enemy to their enemies. He was the foil to Galahad’s impetuous anger, the only one who seemed to understood Tristan’s strange moods, the man who got Lancelot and Kai back on speaking terms with each other every time they fought.

Oh, he had his faults, every man does. Gawain had, in Lancelot’s opinion, a ridiculous attitude to women; he was nearly as pathetically romantic as Arthur on the subject. Apparently you somehow had a duty to protect women and continue to mope about after them even once the deed was done. Maybe it was something about the type of wenches Gawain bedded; the women of Lancelot’s choosing were quite capable of looking after themselves. Apart from that though, Lancelot had sometimes thought Gawain was too accepting, too easy going. When they needed to stand up against the Romans, show they weren’t easily cowed to their subjugation, Gawain would just shrug and accept it and give Lancelot a look like the man was being unreasonable! Lancelot snorted. Gawain. He was...different, to everyone. He never complained, except in jest. He listened when everyone else just wanted to shout. He didn’t fight, except when they fought side by side. And he was always there. Always.

Except, now he wouldn’t be, ever again.

Lancelot gritted his teeth in anger, wanting to throw something. But there was nothing to throw. Just as he considered imagining Arpagius’s face and punching the wall, there was a noise in the corridor. Lancelot quickly slouched down on the bed and adopted an expression of lazy arrogance.  He wouldn’t give that Roman bastard the satisfaction of knowing he was grieving and furious. The wooden door swung open, and a scowling legionnaire dumped a wooden trencher of bread and cheese on the floor. He wasn’t one Lancelot recognised, and the Knight watched him, mockingly.

“Once a Roman guardsman and now servant to a Sarmatian. You’ve been promoted...”

The soldier scowled further but, to Lancelot’s surprise, spoke up.

“Message for you. The Sarmatians said to tell you; ‘Arthur will be fine.’” The Roman clearly had no idea who Arthur was; to him the cavalry Commander was Artorius Castus.

Lancelot sneered, even as his heart leapt. “And a messenger-boy too. How nice for you. Who told you?”

The guard shuddered slightly. “Big guy with two fist-knives and the tall one with red hair. And if they ask, you’d better tell them I told you.”

Lancelot grinned. Bors and Kai. He could imagine what they’d had to threaten the guardsman with to get him to pass that information on. They knew he’d be worrying about Arthur.

“My thanks, messenger-boy. You can run along now,” Lancelot dismissed him, impudently, and the way the man withdrew without saying another word made him realise the other Knights must have been very scary indeed. He wondered how they were all coping with Gawain’s death. He wondered who had told Galahad and Ector, and who the younger Knight had picked a fight with, as in invariably must have. He wondered what kind of ceremony Dagonet could organise, without Gawain’s body or weapons. He wondered if Arthur knew he’d lost another man, and that this time it was kind-hearted Gawain who was never coming back.

He punched the wall.

 

 

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author notes: On History, Accuracy and the Fact that This is Not.
> 
> Gawain - Gawain as the bearer of Excalibur is not my invention; in some early Arthurian French stories, Excalibur is initially owned by Sir Gawain instead of solely by Arthur. Thought it might be fun to play with that in relation to the movie.
> 
> Language - I am not a linguist. A tiniest amount of Latin appears in this chapter, and subsequent chapters will also have little bits of 'Pictish' (I've used Scottish Gaelic to represent this), and I'm afraid I totally made all of this up from sources on the internet. Making up an Iranian 'Sarmatian' dialect was well beyond me...
> 
> Rome and the army - following chapters will also hint at aspects of Roman law and military organisation, and again I must apologise for my ignorance in this field. So bear with any historical inaccuracies you see for the sake of the plot.
> 
> Sarmatia - A certain amount of creative license was necessary in the descriptions of Sarmatian religion and ritual in later chapters, as there really isn't much known for it, and it was likely highly diverse. I've used a Scythian model mixed with Germanic/Norse elements to suggest the type of beliefs and ritual that might have been taking place, on top of what we have from the film.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Your Day Can Always Get Worse

Gawain was exhausted.  
  
The terrain under the trees was growing worse as he travelled south, and the areas of bushes and brambles grew denser around him. Some patches were so thick he was reluctantly forced to find another route. Any distance added to his journey was not welcome. One of these alternate paths had taken him under a small apple tree though; it was early in the autumn but some good sized fruit already hung from low branches. The Knight picked a few of the ones he could reach easily, but didn’t dare stop for longer. Gawain ate the apples as he walked; the fruit was incredibly sour, but went a little way towards filling up the emptiness of hunger inside.  
  
Despite the sustenance, Gawain found himself walking in a kind of dream state; feet moving automatically and thoughts far away in another land and time. All of a sudden he was pulled unceremoniously out of his stupor by a jerk on his hair; he looked up to find his matted braids caught fast in a large thorned bush. Without realising, he seemed to have wandered in an area of thick undergrowth; bracken, saplings, and of course, brambles. With an impatient growl he tugged his hair loose, for the barest heartbeat, he envied Dagonet and Bors for their clean shaven heads. But only very, very briefly. In his tribe, warriors of the god Otan did not cut their hair.  
  
Gawain soon found his way obstructed again, as the thick bushes choked the forest floor and blocked every route. In frustration, he pulled the sword from his belt and hacked awkwardly at the impeding brambles. He didn’t doubt that at full strength he would have been easily able to force a path through, but at the moment he was too exhausted. He thought about Dagonet and Bors again. What he wouldn’t give to have the two big men here now, with similarly large axes. His arm ached, and each time he raised the sword, he felt a burn of pain in his side. The sword was heavy, but also surprisingly sharp, and just when he thought he wouldn’t be able to do it, Gawain finally cut his way out of the thicket, leaving behind the brambles that snarled in his hair and cloak and stumbling into clearer forest.  
  
Suddenly, and for no obvious reason, Gawain found himself lying on his back looking up at the sky. He lay there for a moment dizzy and confused before he realised, to his chagrin, that he must have fainted. He forced himself into a seated position with a groan, and turned his back against a tree trunk. He wasn’t doing so well. Pain warred with exhaustion to leave him cold and trembling, head pounding and eyes burning and dry. He felt like Ector looked after a bad night at the tavern. Gawain felt a welcome warm trickle over his left hip too; the strain of lifting the sword had started his wound bleeding again. He would rest, he decided, but just for a moment or two, and then try and redress it.  
  
Gawain lifted the sword, intending to place it within easy reach if he needed it, when suddenly, something about the blade made him take a closer look. The brambles had cleaned some of the blood from the weapon and now he saw it more closely... the Knight gasped. That sword. The sword he had picked up randomly on the battlefield, just by chance. The sword he should have recognised instantly, knew it better even than his own.  
  
Excalibur.  
  
He stared at the beautiful weapon numbly, taking in the black handgrip entwined with silver thread, elaborate cross guard, its carved pommel and its perfect balance. Took in the swirling opalescent colours of the folded blade, and the strange symbols carved into it, words of an ancient text Gawain would never be able to understand even if he could read. Excalibur! The sword of Uther, forged in Britain by secret craftsmen, said to bear the magic of the ancient gods, and gift its bearer with strange powers. Arthur’s most treasured possession. Like looking through clear water, a memory rose in his mind, of Arthur sitting on the steps at the Wall, cleaning the sword until it shone like lightning in the sunlight.  
  
_“Keep polishing that sword like that, Arthur, and there won’t be much of the blade left,”_ He had joked.  
  
Arthur had smiled at him, eyes shining. _“My Father came back from Heaven to gift me this sword, Gawain. I think it can take a little polish!”_  
  
Gawain had laughed, _“My father was a shepherd. The most he ever gave me was fleas.”_  
  
Gawain suddenly felt light-headed and had to close his eyes. Arthur would never leave Excalibur behind, the last reminder of his beloved father. Never, not if he had any other choice.  
  
The Knight heard his pulse pounding in his ears. It made sense now. Yes, the Knights had fought and died together for nearly eleven years, and would never willing leave another, ever. Unless they were needed by the one person who mattered more to them all. There was only one conclusion for why Arthur had not stayed to look for Excalibur and for Gawain. He was too badly hurt to make that decision.  
  
Fear and despair combined with exhaustion, and Gawain fell asleep, Excalibur clutched tightly to him.  
  
~~~  
  
At the same moment but many miles away, Arthur woke.  
  
Everything hurt. He really hated waking up after being unconscious. There was always bad news of one kind or another.  
  
He opened his eyes slightly, only to snap them shut again immediately after; the room was blindingly bright. The light burned sharp lightning bolts of pain into his skull but he tried to ignore it. Arthur swallowed back nausea and blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to being open once more. Slowly, the room about him swam into focus; he was in his own quarters at the Praetorium at Camboglanna, and it was day. Late afternoon, if the direction of the sun on the wall meant anything.  
  
He rolled his head to one side, and saw a pitcher of water on the table by the bed, and a beaker. Arthur went to grasp the cup, only to be brought short as he realized his right arm was firmly immobilized. Thick bandages wrapped around a splint from knuckle to elbow, and the whole appendage was strapped firmly to his chest. He wiggled his fingers slightly and was rewarded by shooting pains down his arm. A bad break. He winced.  
  
Just at that moment there was a noise outside, and Dagonet’s head appeared around the door. He ducked back out and called “He’s awake!”, before quickly entering the room, accompanied by Bors and Cipio the fort medicus. Tristan followed them like a shadow.  
  
“Arthur,” Bors greeted him in Sarmatian. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Dagonet silently handed him the beaker of water, and Arthur drank, gratefully, before handing it back.  
“Like a Woad used me for an anvil...” Arthur groaned, and made a move to sit up.  
  
“Stay still, Artorius,” said Cipio, frowning, and elbowing Dagonet out of the way. “You’ve got a nasty concussion.”  
  
The man proceeded to hold a candle up to Arthur’s eyes to check the pupils, leaving Arthur with bright after-images and an even worse headache, especially after the physician poked at the wound on Arthur’s head. “You’ll live,” he announced, as though he had rather hoped it wouldn’t be the case. “But don’t blame me if you get blood poisons. He...” and the man indicated to Dagonet with a careless finger, “wouldn’t let me use the bleeding cups.”  
  
“Bleeding cups?” said Arthur, feeling ill.  
  
“I know,” scowled the physician. “I told him it would be best. I don’t think he understood. These barbarians...they probably think sacrificing chickens or something is as good a medical practice as letting out bad blood! Still, it’s too late now. And the General wanted to speak with you when you woke up. You!”  
  
He pointed at Tristan, and spoke slowly.  
  
“Fetch General Arpagius. Do you understand? Arpagius...bring him here...”  
  
Tristan gave the man a stare that would have crumbled a marble statue to dust.  
  
“Lord save us,” snarled the medicus, and stormed out, presumably to fetch the General himself. Arthur gave the Knights an apologetic look.  
  
“Little git,” said Bors with a shrug. “Here’s a novel idea, we should get a medicus that actually knows something about healing.”  
  
“Give me a hand up,” said Arthur, and the Knight helped him sit, carefully.  
  
“You alright?” asked Tristan.  
  
Arthur investigated the bandaged wound on his head. “I’ll be alright. Thanks for interceding on behalf of my blood though,” he gave Dagonet a rueful smile.  
  
“You will be fine,” assured the big man. “I thought you’d probably lost enough blood without him taking any more. You arm is properly set and splinted, and will heal well.”  
  
Arthur nodded his thanks again; grateful he could rely on his Knights, and then yawned suddenly.  
  
“How long have I been out?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.  
  
“A day,” said Bors, with a shrug. “’Bout time you showed a bit of life...”  
  
_‘We were worried’_ was the unsaid statement.  
  
Arthur groaned a little, and rubbed his head. “Good thing I’ve got a thick Roman skull, as Lancelot keeps telling me,” he joked, weakly. None of the Knights laughed.  
  
“Arthur,” said Bors, uncharacteristically serious. “Arthur, listen. There’s some stuff you need to know, before Arpagius gets here.”  
  
Arthur’s aching brain suddenly absorbed his Knights’ unhappy expressions and awkward postures. Something was wrong.  
  
“What is it?” He asked uneasily. “Bors, please tell me you haven’t all done something to piss off Arpagius, I really don’t want to have to smooth any ruffled feathers....”  
  
Tristan shook his head, braids swinging, and Arthur’s heart sank. Tristan always seemed to be the one that gave out bad news. Somehow his diffident attitude, whatever the man really felt, made it easier to hear than platitudes.  
  
“What do you remember about the battle?” The scout asked.  
  
Arthur frowned. “We were to take General Arpagius north of the Wall; he wanted to see the extent of the Woad territory. They finally attacked us, and...”  
  
Arthur paused, as the details finally came back to him, all in a rush. The cavalry charge towards the trees and the clash with the Woads. The whistle of Tristan’s bow and the Knights’ battle cries. A Woad swinging an axe at his leg, he sliced its head off, and looked up to see Gawain knocked from the saddle by the punch of an arrow, saw a giant Woad raise an axe and smash it down towards the fallen Knight’s body. He remembered shouting out helplessly, and then the distraction cost him and a thrown dagger grazed his head and he had dropped from his horse, aware of no more.  
  
“Gawain!” He cried. “Is he alright? I saw him fall, a Woad struck him...” He stopped, taking in the looks on the Knights’ faces.  
  
“Oh, God,” he breathed. “He’s dead?”  
  
Tristan nodded.  
  
“We’re sorry, Arthur,” said Dagonet. “He meant a lot, to all of us.”  
  
There was a roaring in Arthur’s ears he didn’t think had anything to do with his headache.  
  
“Has someone organised the burial?” He asked numbly, unable to think anything beyond the practical.  
If it was possible, the two cousins looked more stricken, and Tristan looked away.  
  
“We...”started Bors, and anger and grief made him awkward. “We don’t have his body, Arthur. Arpagius wouldn’t let us search for him; you were injured and he ordered us back here.”  
  
Arthur swallowed slowly as the nightmare unfolded around him, and hunched forwards. Another Knight lost. Another failure in his duty. It was bad enough facing this loss the battle field, but hearing it now, days too late and while he felt ill and vulnerable was making everything worse.  
  
“We’re confined to the fort,” added Tristan. “I wanted to go back today and find him, but he won’t allow it.” The scout spat out of the window in a way that made Arthur quite sure that threats, if not actual bodily harm, had been exchanged between the scout and Arpagius over that order. “It’s not right.”  
  
There was silence, as if his loyal Knights expected him to pull a solution from the air. He couldn’t fix this.  
“It’s not right. Of course,” said Arthur faintly. “It’s just...I’m sorry, this is hard. Gawain...”  
  
He passed his uninjured hand over his blurring eyes. _Lord, protect him on his journey. He was a good man, one of the best._  
  
“We should go, and let you rest,” said Dagonet, with quiet sympathy. “There’s something else, though.”

Arthur’s heart plummeted. He didn’t think he could take more of this. “Who?”  
  
“Lancelot,” said Bors, but quickly clarified at Arthur’s expression. “He’s not hurt. At least, not yet.” He added darkly. “You need to get Arpagius to release him.”  
  
Arthur’s head was swimming. “Release...Why?” he managed.  
  
“Lancelot broke his nose,” said Tristan calmly.  
  
Of course he did, thought Arthur. What a very Lancelot thing to do, take a bad situation, and make it ten times worse.  
  
“Wasn’t his fault,” said Bors, “Very nearly hit the man myself. He made us leave Gawain.”  
  
“You have to get him to let us go back,” said Tristan again, intently. It was always damn near impossible to tell what the scout was thinking or feeling, but Arthur knew if Tristan had such a thing as friends, Gawain had been his closest, after Dagonet.  
  
“I’ll talk to him.” Arthur promised, feeling as if the day could not possibly get any worse. Gawain...  
They all heard the sound of footsteps and Arpagius’s loud voice outside. The Knights stood up to leave; Arpagius wasn’t the sort of man that would approve of soldiers hanging around in their Commander’s quarters.  
  
“Oh,” said Arthur, casting about for a shred of comfort in that horrible day, and noticing the empty sword hanger on the wall. “Did someone get Excalibur for me?”  
  
Once more, the Knights’ expressions told him everything. Arthur groaned a little. Never say the day couldn’t possibly get worse.

 

 


	7. Woods, Wolves and Woads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bloody battle violence and descriptions of injuries. Rated for language.

Gawain woke with a start, heart racing in his chest. There had been a sound that had woken him; something primeval and terrifying had jerked him abruptly from dreams of peace and grassy plains. He froze, listening intently, and there!

Somewhere in the forest. A wolf’s howl. Far too close for comfort.

Gawain looked about with heavy eyes; night had fallen fully around him, and he cursed himself for falling asleep. He should have kept moving, and found somewhere safe to wait out the night. Well, it was too late now, and now the wolves were on the hunt. And the way he was bleeding, he might as well be waving a torch around to attract attention to himself.

The wolf howled again, at its call was taken up by another. Gawain struggled to his feet, snatched up Excalibur and began to move, as fast as he could. They might be a mile or two away yet, but wolves were deadly fast in the forest, and he was not.

He had heard Arthur’s voice in memory just before he fell asleep, but it was Tristan’s voice that now sounded in his mind. “ _If you can hear the wolf, fear the wolf.”_

If they caught his scent, he would have no possibility of outrunning them. He sniffed the air; there was little wind so there was a chance. His only hope was that he could get far enough away that would not bother to chase him, or that they might come across a more attractive prey.

Travelling through the forest was difficult enough during the day but at night was nearly impossible. Undergrowth caught at Gawain’s boots and legs, low hanging branches snagged at his hair, trees loomed up in his path with no warning. He tripped in a ditch and struggled painfully to rise again, exhaustion and dizziness dragged at his strength. Had he been cold earlier? Well he was warm now, almost too hot. The exertion of the near-run through the forest was causing sweat to bead on his forehead and prickle between his shoulder-blades. The Knight suddenly remembered he had not rewrapped his injury before falling asleep. The big man laid his palm over the bandages; they were sodden through, and he could just make out a dark stain of blood on the side of his pale trousers.  “It’s still bleeding,” he muttered.

  _“Need to bind it, Gawain.”_ The voice now sounded like Dagonet.

The wolves had stopped howling, but that was not a good sign. It meant they’d caught a scent and were silently hunting, and running at a lope that was easily twice as fast as he was moving. He was never going to make it. Gawain touched the pommel of Excalibur, and smiled, humourlessly. They wouldn’t find him an easy meal.

Suddenly, through the near complete darkness, Gawain saw a flicker of movement ahead, and froze. He thought the wolves were still behind. Had they been driving him into a second pack lying in ambush? The tactic was not unknown. Silently as he could, the injured Knight slowly drew Excalibur from his belt. The blade glinted dimly in the dark, and the weight of it was reassuring in his hand. Cautiously, he took a few steps forward. The dark shapes moved behind a tree, and the Knight tensed, ready to strike. Perceval steadied his arm, and murmured; _“Ready, Gawain?_ _Three, two, one...”_

Gawain spun around the tree with a shout, swinging the sword round at deadly speed. In less than a heartbeat his brain finally interpreted what his eyes were seeing, and it took all his strength to pull the blow.

The two Woads crouched on the ground in front of the tree, looked up with shock as the Knight burst from the forest; he could see somehow he’d managed to take them by surprise. The male gave a snarl and scrambled back, pulling out a blade of his own, the other curled back against the tree with a small cry. Gawain stumbled back, but held his sword out, ready, his mind in turmoil. First wolves, now Woads! He hesitated; for some reason railing against the instructions his mind was giving him to instantly leap forwards and slaughter them both. These were the first Woads he’d met who weren’t trying to kill him first. The Woad with the sword quickly dropped to a defensive crouch in front of his companion, blade out and eyes fixed on Gawain. The Knight circled round slowly, Excalibur ready. It would be a short fight if it came to that.

_“What are you waiting for?”_ said Bors’ voice, impatient. _“Just kill him and get out of there!”_

“What am _I_ waiting for?” Gawain growled back. “What is _he_ waiting for? I don’t have all night...”

The Woad stayed crouched, blade raised.

But neither of them attacked. Gawain saw the blue natives eyes flick over his body, taking in his bound up arm and blood soaked armour, but he didn’t leap forwards to take advantage of his enemy’s weakness. The Knight glanced at the second Woad, the one crouched by the tree, and saw she was female, and from the way she was curled up, probably hurt too.

He realised how young the Woad in front of him was; he couldn’t be older than Galahad, and at the thought of his young friend, Gawain found his anger melting away. He was too weary. All of a sudden, Gawain found himself speaking.

 “Look, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The Woad didn’t relax his guard.

Gawain nodded towards the woman. “She’s injured already. There’s wolves about. We have enough problems without fighting each other.”

The Woad still didn’t give any indicator that he understood, but then again, why should he? Gawain didn’t speak any Pictish. Why should a Woad know Sarmatian?

The woman gave a little whimper of pain, and that decided him. Lost for any other mode of communication, Gawain slowly lowered the sword, until the tip rested on the floor. The Woad male narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and rocked side to side, clearly confused by the gesture, but didn’t lower his own weapon.

“Fine,” said Gawain, tiredly. “Be like that and he turned to walk away. A sudden voice behind him stopped him in his tracks.

_“_ Tu es Artor equites?”

Latin? The Woad spoke Latin? Gawain was startled for a moment. But then again, Tristan supposedly knew some Pictish he’d picked up from his scouting missions. So maybe it wasn’t so unlikely.

None of the Sarmatians liked speaking the Roman tongue, the language reminding them too much of their slavery, but they all could. Their early Commanders had drummed or beaten it into them well enough.

Gawain slowly turned back to the Woad, and answered in the same language. “Yes. I’m one of Arthur’s Knights.” 

The Woad slowly licked his lips looking anxious, but finally nodded and lowered his own knife. The two enemies looked at each other. 

“Alright,” murmured Gawain. “So now what?”

A sudden crash behind him had them both spinning around to face the forest, just as three grey shadows came darting snarling from the trees. He’d forgotten all about the wolves! Gawain gave a shout and dragged Excalibur back up just as the first wolf leapt into the air, aiming at his throat. He struck out with the long sword, slicing across the wolf’s belly. The creature fell with a yelp, and Gawain spun to face the next. Two creatures growled and leapt for him together, claws and teeth flashing in the night. He stabbed one through the heart; the beast dropped, but not before its companion latched its jaws onto Gawain’s good arm, teeth sinking deep into the leather of his vambrace. The Knight fell back with a hoarse yell, Excalibur wrenched from his grasp. Just then he saw a flash of movement beside him, and a blade seemed to sprout from the wolf’s throat. The lupine issued a horrible dying squeal and fell to the floor. Gawain stumbled to regain his balance and saw the Woad pull his sword from the wolf’s body, just as more howls sounded in the trees. Three wolves down, the rest of the pack to go.

Adrenaline coursed through him, numbing his injuries, and Gawain turned back to the Woad.

“I’ll hold them off. Take her and go.”

The Woad didn’t react, so Gawain forcibly pushed him towards his injured companion.

 “Go! _Vado_! ” he shouted, just as another three wolves burst from the trees, and Gawain just had time to see the Woad man lift the woman into his arms and vanish into the forest before he was once more fighting for his life.

~~~

Gawain kneeled on the cold earth, panting and dizzy. He couldn’t remember how many wolves he’d killed, each attack blurring into the next. He wasn’t even sure anymore if he’d got them all, or if the rest of the pack had slunk off to find an easier prey. He had, miraculously, escaped further injury but for a parting souvenir; a lucky swipe of claws had left a shallow slash across his cheek and down across the side of his neck. Gawain dragged open heavy eyes, the clearing was scattered with blood and wolf bodies. That would soon attract other predators. He had to move.

The voice was back, and this time it was Galahad’s. _“Come on, Gawain. You can do this. You have to!”_

“I’m tired, Galahad.” His head seemed impossibly heavy, his hair hiding him from the world like a curtain.

_“Get up, Gawain!”_ And this time it sounded it like Lancelot. He growled in irritation, but the other Knights were right. He had to move. He drove the point of Excalibur’s blade into the ground and used the sword as a crutch to push himself up to his feet. Gawain wobbled, but held his ground.

“Ow,” he mumbled.

_“Now go, Gawain. Stop complaining, you sound like a Roman. Go!”_

“Shut up, Lancelot.” He was really beginning to hate that voice.

He took one step. And another. And a third, and then he was stumbling away through the dark trees, leaving the blood and wolf corpses cooling behind him. He was utterly exhausted, down to his bones, but he didn’t dare stop in case he never got up again. Was he still going south? The ground in front of him was sloping downwards, so hopefully that meant he wasn’t going in circles, but he didn’t really know, and caring took energy he didn’t have.

Minutes turned into hours, and still he walked, numbly and blindly. Now and again one of the Knights he could see walking beside him would speak up. Ector coaxed, Bors threatened, Galahad wheedled, and Gawain stumbled on. His thirst was worse than ever, the apples he’d eaten yesterday seemed to have turned to vinegar in his stomach. The night was too hot for the time of year, and the dryness of the air burned his throat and skin. If he made it back to the Wall, Gawain decided, he was never leaving it again.

He stumbled over a tree root and fell to the floor, and in that moment, all his strength was gone.

 “Get up,” he murmured to the sky, “Get up!”

But somehow, even when the other Knights appeared and stood around him, calling and shouting, he couldn’t rouse him enough to move. It was as if, finally, his strength had just been used up. He focused everything on his hand, the fingers twitched slightly, and at last he managed to pull Excalibur to him, and drag the sword up to rest on his chest. As his eyes closed, he knew he was honoured to die with Excalibur in his hand.

“Sorry,” he murmured to his brother Knights. “I’m sorry.”

They fell silent and drifted away.

He floated for what felt like a long time between darkness and waking, trapped in a burning twilight of exhaustion and pain. He could smell blood and death; feel the trickle of it on his cut cheek. He was so sick of that smell.

Gawain thought he heard a voice somewhere, but a different, new voice in an odd language; not one of the Knights. There was movement too, and it roused him enough to open his eyes, just as hands descended on him from the darkness. “No!” He shouted hoarsely, and struggled furiously, kicking out at his captors. “Get off!”

But he was too weak to put up much of a fight and there were too many of them. The sword was knocked easily from his grasp and they pulled his arm from the sling and wrenched his hands behind his back. He kicked out at unseen ankles but a fist struck him hard in his injured side and as he crumpled to ground, a hood was pulled down over his face and he saw no more.

 

 

 


	8. Blood Debts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bloody battle violence and descriptions of injuries. Rated for language.

Lancelot had reached the fifty-fourth loud and tuneless verse of “Ninety-Nine Romans Stood On The Wall” when he heard distant footsteps at the end of the corridor. He stretched like a cat and slowly sat up. Another Legionnaire to taunt? Arthur coming to releasing him? The guard outside uttered an audible sigh of relief when the singing broke off. Lancelot grinned viciously to himself in the dark, and rose silently off the hard bed.

The footsteps reached the outside of the door and the Knight heard a string of fast Latin exchanged. The bolt slid and the door opened, and...

Arpagius entered, flanked by a muscular legionnaire guardsman.

Lancelot’s grin shifted from easily nonchalant to sardonically mocking.

“General...How’s the nose?”

A muscle ticked in Arpagius’s jaw, but he resisted touching his bruised and swollen nose. Instead, the Roman looked down at Lancelot as if he were merely something unpleasant the General had trodden in at the stables.

“Pay attention, Sarmatian.” He snapped. “I’m not here to listen to your attempts at humour, but to inform you of the case against you, as you appear uneducated in Roman law. You have contravened two laws of the Roman State; as a soldier striking a superior and General of the Army, and also as a slave striking his master...”

Lancelot felt anger burn fast and hot inside him, and his fist itched again.

“Slave?” he said, quietly.

Arpagius straightened his back and continued. “I am within my legal rights to have you executed. You would suffer a traitor’s end, stoned to death by your equals-” he paused. Lancelot bursting out laughing was clearly not the reaction he expected.

“Executed?” Lancelot sneered. “What, do you want me to beg for my life, General? I am Sarmatian, not your slave, nor any man’s! I am not beholden to the barbaric laws of your murdering empire or your god. ” The two soldiers either side of the General were shifting angrily, but Lancelot didn’t care. “I follow Arthur-“

Arpagius raised his own fist and glared down at the Knight, his cool demeanour already vanishing.  “Arthur?” he hissed. “A half-bred embarrassment, a puppet, banished to the most inhospitable province and forgotten about! You take my word for it, Sarmatian, he won’t be in charge of Camboglanna or his precious Knights for much longer, not when my report gets back. And as for you! You dare to speak against those who own you? You are a slave of Rome, as your ancestors were, and your bastard sons will be. You have no rights, or privileges which I, your _owner_ , cannot take away.” He snapped his fingers in Lancelot’s face, and the Knight automatically knocked his hand away with a snarl.

There was silence for a moment, before Arpagius said, victoriously; “That’s another two crimes, Sarmatian, and the law now calls for your death.”

Lancelot managed to keep his silence, barely. He suddenly remembered tales he had heard of Roman households where all the slaves under the roof were executed in punishment for the crimes of one person. If Arpagius was really crazy enough to enforce this, he wouldn’t risk any more of the Knight’s lives. If only he had his swords...

“However,” continued Arpagius, after a pause. “I am far from a fool. I have seen that Artorius’s discipline is dangerously close to apathy, and his “Knights” little more than bloodthirsty savages. But I can see a crude tool is sometimes needed for a crude task.”

Lancelot was nearly quivering with rage. One of them had died for this arrogant shit’s pride, because he wanted to be the General to face the Woads. Because he went looking for them in their own territory and dragged the Knights with him. Gawain was dead because of him. To hell with his swords, he was going to strangle the man with his bare hands.

Arpagius abruptly turned towards the door.

“I will spare your life, in view of your ignorance of Roman law. You will be flogged tomorrow in front of your Sarmatians and the legion, receiving fifty lashes, and then you will return to your full duties. You rations will be halved for the foreseeable future.”

“I’d like to see you try it,” growled out Lancelot. Arpagius turned back to him, voice careless.

” As a slave, you have no legal right to contest. You should be grateful I’m sparing your life, boy.”

“Grateful!” Lancelot laughed again. “To you? To a man so gutless he can’t honour a brave Knight who died fighting to protect his fucking Roman hide? So worthless he has to keep other men like possessions in order to feel like a man at all! So cowardly...”

 Lancelot stopped, suddenly realising what this had all been about. He stepped up the General and rejoiced at the glint of fear in the Roman’s eyes. “...So cowardly he doesn’t even dare to enforce his own laws in fear of what the Sarmatian ‘savages’ would do to him if he did...”

They stood face to face for about ten seconds, the hate creating a near palpable barrier between them, before Arpagius said, softly;

“You will now receive one hundred lashes, and, if you survive, I fully intent to see to it that your service record is revoked. That means your last eleven years of servitude would vanish. Your fifteen years of slavery will start all over again. Sarmatian.”

Arpagius smirked, but Lancelot barely noticed, deafened by the ringing in his ears. Arpagius had finally found the one thing that could hurt him. Fifteen years. Another fifteen years...A death sentence as good as any other.

“You will remain here until you are taken to the Principia at noon tomorrow for your punishment, and if any of your friends try to intervene I will take whoever the youngest is, and flog him too. It’s time somebody took control here.”

“Oh, I’d say it was high time, Arpagius.”  The voice behind him made Arpagius jump, and he spun around. Lancelot looked up, barely willing to believe his eyes, and his heart soared.

Arthur Castus strode into the cell, red cloak billowing out behind him like the wings of an avenging angel. The torchlight lit a bright nimbed halo of fire around his dark head and flames danced in his eyes as he stared down at the Roman General. In that moment, Lancelot saw him like never before; as towering and unbreakable as a vengeful god, indestructible, transcendent and immortal. He fought the urge to kneel, and the moment passed. Arthur was just a man again, and a bandaged and bruised one at that.

“Artorius,” said Arpagius and it was a greeting less warm than a swim in a British lake in winter. “I heard you were still in the Valetudinarium.”

 “Well, you heard wrong.” If Arpagius’s voice had been cold, Arthur’s sounded like he’d swallowed an icicle. It seemed he had over-heard most of their conversation. “My thanks for your attempts to ‘discipline’ my men, General, but I believe I can take over from here. Lancelot, you may go.”

Arpagius exploded. “Stay where you are, slave! Guard, seize him!”

The burly legionnaire, Arpagius’s muscle, who had been standing unobserved in the corner shuffled uneasily, and looked at Lancelot. The Knight raised an eyebrow, and the legionnaire seemed to remember what happened last time he had been order to seize this particular Knight. He opted for standing behind Lancelot and glaring menacingly instead.

Arpagius seemed not to notice. “Castus! You would dare to challenge my authority in this? Your ‘Knight’ assaulted his army officer, and a superior citizen! He will be corporally punished by the laws of Rome-”

“By the laws of Rome?” Arthur interrupted, furious. “What of the laws of God? Causing another unnecessary pain is not the path to righteousness, or to justice. You might be a General, Arpagius, but not one for this province, and you came here as my guest only. The Knights answer to me only; you have no say over how I organise my forces or discipline my men!”

 “You’re forgetting the facts, Castus!” snarled the General. “This slave is an insolent troublemaker and a reprobate. He shall be punished for his transgression, as a warning to others that insubordination will not be tolerated!”

“Reprobate?” muttered Lancelot. Arthur shot him a warning look, and turned back to the Roman.

“Yes, Arpagius, he is a troublemaker. But, the thing is,” Arthur stepped forward, and Lancelot was surprised to see how he towered over the other man. “The thing is, he’s _my_ troublemaker. The Sarmatian Knights serve under _my_ command, and their papers of service rest with me. If Lancelot and the Sarmatians are slaves, they belong to me. Lay one hand on him, or any of my Knights, and _you_ will be breaking the laws of Rome by damaging my slaves and property without permission, a crime punishable by a fine I don’t think even your gross salary would cover. Understand?”

Arpagius was so red in the face, he looked like a bloated corpse.

“You...You would let him get away unpunished? You would let a barbarian get away with assaulting a Roman?”

“Yes,” said Arthur, simply. “If I believed the Roman deserved it. It was not fear for my life that sent you fleeing back to the wall with your tail between your legs, was it, ‘General’? Maybe next time you should listen to my advice and leave the battlefield for the captains with experience, rather than forcing an idiotic move to take on the Woads in their own country and leading one of my men to an unnecessary death!”

“He died killing Woads!” snarled Arpagius, “That was his function. He died fulfilling his orders.”

Arthur stepped close to the other man’s face, and he was nearly trembling with anger. “It was unnecessary,” he repeated. “And I hope God can forgive you, because I do not think I can. I think you’ve outstayed your welcome here, General, and I want you out of my fort by noon. Give my greetings to Rome when you see it again. Lancelot?”

He turned out the door with a swirl of cloak, leaving Arpagius red-faced and speechless in the cell behind him. Lancelot needed no other encouragement, and threw the Roman another sneering look before darting from the cell, to freedom. He quickly followed Arthur as he swept up the corridor. The two walked side by side in silence for a moment, before Lancelot spoke up.

“I’m _your_ troublemaker?” he muttered. “Arthur, all this time and I didn’t know you cared...”

The Roman uttered a short, tired laugh. “Don’t let it go to your head. It was the only argument I could think of at the time. Not really up to complex legal debate right now.”

Lancelot noticed for the first time how weary Arthur looked under the bandage on his head, and how he held his splinted arm tightly to his chest. How grief hung over him like a cloud.

“Should you really be out of bed?” Lancelot asked. Arthur shot him a look that quickly made him change the subject.

“So,” he mused “You’re really going to let me off for punching your General in the face?”

Arthur snorted, as they rounded the next corner and stepped out into the pre-dawn air of the Principia and freedom.

“Of course not. I’m putting you on _pecunaria multa_ , you’re on a quarter pay until I stop seeing double. And you have to...patrol with Tristan for the next three weeks.”

Lancelot winced, but nodded. It was only fair. He had crossed a line.

“I’m sorry I punched him, if it screws everything up.” He offered.

Arthur smiled grimly. “I’m not. Little sod deserved it. I was pretty close to socking him myself.”

It was Lancelot’s turn to laugh, but then he remembered the words of Arpagius, and sobered.

“What are you going to do? About his report he’s sending back. Would they actually try and replace you?”

Arthur sighed, “I don’t know. Probably not, if only because no other Commander could put up with you.”

Lancelot smiled, but he heard the worry in Arthur’s voice. If Arpagius gave a negative report of Arthur back in Rome, would they act on it? Were they all still in danger?

“Forget it,” said Arthur briskly, as they entered the Praetorium. “There are other things that are more important.”

He turned to the desk for a moment, and picked up a sealed paper. He took a deep breath, and turned back to Lancelot.

“You feeling up to a little excursion?”

Lancelot flashed as smile. “Always.”

Arthur nodded, and held out the paper to the Knight, and he saw it was a pass allowing travel beyond the Wall.

“Go and find Gawain.” He said.

   
~~~  
 

Gawain drifted in and out of awareness. He was moving, half carried and half dragged by swift unseen figures on each side. His eyes and hands were bound, a stinking cloth was tied around his mouth; breathing was difficult. The grip on his arms pulled agonisingly at the arrow wound in his shoulder. The Knight tried to pull his feet under him to walk, but his knees didn’t seem to want to hold his weight and the men dragging him along wouldn’t stop for him to get his balance.

Irritated, he struggled, pulling back against their hold, but one of his captors gave him a cuff round the head; his feet slipped out from under him, and he lost consciousness again.

 Gawain was snapped suddenly back into wakefulness as his captors released his arms and he fell to the ground. He didn’t need his eyes to know where he was; the smell of pungent blue dye mixed with sweat, woodsmoke and leather assaulted him on every side. A Woad encampment. He wondered vaguely why he wasn’t afraid, but realised, fear needed energy and he had nothing left.

 _“This doesn’t look good,”_ commented Lancelot from behind his shoulder.

 _Don’t be a moron, Lancelot,_ Gawain thought, muzzily. _I’m about to get gutted by Woads. Of course it doesn’t look good._

There was a lull in the conversation as he was dumped on the floor, before the Woad to his right spoke up loudly, the native tongue lilting on the air. Another older voice, away to the left, responded with a question, and strong hands on his shoulder and hair pulled him upright onto his knees. The Woad, consciously or unconsciously knocked the arrow shaft, and Gawain’s agonised cry was muffled in the gag.

Dizzy and disorientated without his sight, he let the natives hold him upright, too exhausted even to lift his head.

 _“I think you might be in trouble, boy.”_ Dinaden piped up, helpfully.

 _You can talk_ , Gawain thought back. _You’ve been dead for five years._

 _“You’ll be alright, Gawain,”_ said Galahad, firmly. _“The rest of you, shut up.”_

The Knights went quiet as Gawain knelt before his enemies, and let the native language flow over him as the Woads about him argued his fate.

~~~

The first glow of dawn was lighting up the sky, when the three Woad scouts returned with their captive to the camp. Chieftain Alvar and the Elders sat beside the glowing fire, observing the holy hours, when the Woad scout Carlon approached.

“Alvar. I have returned, and I bring a gift.” Carlon watched his Elders and was satisfied by the look of surprise on the Chieftain’s face when he saw what Carlon had brought. Brae and Esras dragged their captive forward into the firelight, and dumped him on the ground. There was a moment of silence as the Elders rose.

“Carlon, what is this that you have found?” Alvar’s voice did not betray his emotion, but Carlon knew it was there.

He gestured to the men behind him with a smirk; they dragged the bound man up to his knees, and the captive gave the first sign of being conscious, letting out a muffled grunt of pain.

The warrior was a pitiful sight. Dried blood stained the front of his garments, and coated his armour like rust, and more fresh blood was seeping from his tunic even as he knelt on the ground. Alvar saw the shaft of an arrow still embedded in his chest. He was filthy with dirt and mud, wild hair tangled, and the skin of his face that wasn’t hidden behind blindfold and gag was pale. The soldier was clearly badly injured, but Alvar did not need to imagine that at full strength he was most intimidating. He had seen this one in battle before; the big axe-wielding Knight with the wild mane of yellow hair. Fearless and, he had thought, undefeatable.

“We found him in the forest, wounded,” said Carlon. “He is from the Wall.”

“A Roman?” Asked Esras.

Alvar shook his head. “No. He is one of the Knights. He is Arthur’s.”

There was a murmur of conversation around them in the small crowd of warriors that had gathered to see the captive.

“A Knight!” the Elder Beran spat. “Much of the blood of our people is on his hands.”

“He must die, now.” agreed Brae.

Carlon shook his head. “No. He may have useful information for us. He may know where their troops will next venture to cross the Wall. He may know how their scout always finds us.”

“Arthur is not our enemy,” said Elder Oran. “His is one of us. A slave to Rome.”

“If he is one of us, why does he kill so many of our people?” demanded Beran. “We should send this Knight’s head back to Arthur, and show him what we do to those who take what is ours.”

Doran, the druid for the clan, slowly approached the fallen Knight. He touched the fresh bleeding slashes on the captive’s neck, carved, it seemed, by a wolf’s claw, then examined the arrow shaft in his shoulder. The Knight jerked back from the touch and turned his head away.

“He is strong, this Knight,” said Doran, slowly. “This arrow is one made by our people. It has been two nights and a day since our last encounter with Arthur’s horse-warriors, and that was many miles north of here. He has walked far with these wounds. He is strong.”

He turned back to face Alvar. “He will tell you nothing.”

Alvar nodded, considering. “Your gift is double edged, Carlon. If Arthur finds that one of his Knights died here, we shall not escape his wrath.”

“If we can get no information from him, he must die.” said Brae. “He is not long for this world anyway.”

There were nods from the watching clan members, but just at that moment, another Woad approached the group, and knelt.

“Chieftain! I wish to speak!”

Alvar nodded. “Speak then, Rian.”

“You must stop. You cannot kill this man,” said the young Woad, rising and pointing at the captive. “He is the man who saved Fiachra.”

There was another ripple of talk amongst those watching.

“Explain this. You did not say he was a Knight before.”

“I did not think it would matter, I thought him already in the Otherworld by now. He took us by surprise in the forest as you know and we would have killed him, but Fiachra was injured from a fall and we were trapped by wolves. He fought off the wolves to allow me to escape with her. I did not think he would survive, but now that he has, he is owed a Blood-debt.”

“He did not fight to let you and Fiachra escape, Rian,” said Carlon, but patiently. Rian was only young, and had much to learn of their enemy. “The horse-warriors are just savages, they have no concept of mercy or kindness.”

“Even beasts will protect others if they are attacked,” argued Rian. “And so he did with us, and with purpose. He spoke to me in the tongue of the Romans and told me to flee with Fiachra.”

There was silence all around, and many eyes fell on the injured Knight. Alvar saw the man’s head had fallen forwards and he wondered if the warrior were still conscious. He made his decision.

“Blood-debts are not owed to enemies,” he said, slowly. “We cannot let him live, or he will take more of the lives of our people. He shall die by his own sword once the sun is fully risen.”

Carlon nodded, acceptingly. He had hoped the Knight would be able to give them some information to defeat the invaders of their homeland, but even if he did not, with his death there would be one less murderer in the world. He took the Knight’s blade from Esras. It was a beautiful weapon, far more beautiful than he would have expected from the Romans. It seemed also oddly familiar.

“This is his sword,” he said, and passed the weapon, strangely reluctantly, to the druid.

The gasp issued by Doran was loud enough to make him start, and he looked at the man in surprise. The druid stared at the sword in his hand with mingled amazement and disbelief.

“This!” He murmured. “Look!”

The three Elders Alvar, Orin and Beran all glanced at the sword, and then, with looks of wonder, they immediately knelt. The watching warriors quickly emulated, not understanding what was happening but knowing it was important.

“Excalibur!” cried Doran, lifting the sword, and the word was echoed across the clearing by whispered voices.

“The Sword of the Pendragon! How came it to be here? It does not belong to this Knight.”

Carlon looked up from where he knelt. “I do not know how he came by it,” he said, shaken, “but he was holding it when we found him.”

“It’s true, Lawspeaker,” added Rian, “That is the sword he wielded against the wolves.”

“Then in spilling their blood there he has made that place holy,” said Doran, “and our path is clear. The one who wields Excalibur is blessed by the gods. If he comes to us in battle, we may fight him and be blessed to die on that blade. If he comes to us in peace, or at an hour of need we may not harm him.”

“Those laws refer to Uther and his kin, Spiritwalker!” said Beran, angrily “And not to any who should merely pick Excalibur up.”

The druid eyed him, coldly. “No man merely picks Excalibur up, Beran. This weapon was guided to this Knight, such things are the will of the gods, and not for us to judge.”

“We must send word to Merlin,” suggested Oran. “He shall wish to know of this.”

“Agreed,” said Alvar. “And as this man has borne Excalibur and proved himself a friend to the Woads, I declare him reprieved this day, and the Blood-debt stands. Tomorrow, he is an enemy once more and we must decide then if he is to die. Rian, it is from you and Fiachra that the debt is owed. You may treat his wounds if you see fit. Go.”

 

 


	9. Reprieve

Tristan was tying the fittings on the sides of his armour as the first hazy curve of the golden sun peaked above the horizon, sending bright fingers of blood-red across the sky. The morning mists would soon burn away and the riding would be good.

The scout easily heard the other man and horse enter the courtyard, but ignored their approach until the other finally spoke.

“Going somewhere?” said Galahad’s voice, and Tristan looked up to see the younger Knight, dressed in light travelling armour and cloak, and leading his horse. He was armed to the teeth.

Tristan was silent for a moment, trying to decide if he wanted company or not. Finally, deciding he didn’t really have much of a choice, he said; “Going to find Gawain.”

“Good,” said Galahad. “Me too,” and he swung up into the saddle.

There was another echo of hooves by the gate, and Ector rounded the corner leading his horse, followed by Bors and Dagonet, riding at a slow walk. Tristan didn’t let his irritation show on his face. He knew the other Knights would all show up too, but they could at least be punctual.

“Morning,” Bors greeted Galahad and Tristan. The other two just nodded. No-one felt much like talking today.

“Perce and Kai are on their way,” added the big Knight, and sure enough, less than a minute later, Kai and Perceval entered the courtyard on horseback, dressed for fast riding and an all-out war.

“Everyone here?” said Kai. There were nods all around.

“Let’s go kill some Woads,” said Bors, with a savage grin.

The Knights turned their horses, and rode off through the lightening fort down the Via Principalis towards the main gate. From here, they would take the short stretch of road that led to the Wall, and then it was just a matter of persuading or threatening the guards into opening the Wall gate. If Arpagius’s men were on patrol today, things would get a lot more complicated.

An eighth rider waited for them outside the Porta Praetoria by the fort road, his horse tossing its dark head, impatient as its master.

“Gentlemen,” Lancelot greeted them lazily.

“Lancelot!” said Ector. “And they let a ‘reprobate’ like you out of prison after only one day?”

The Knight smiled. Clearly the legionnaire guard Arpagius had brought with him to the prison had been persuaded to be indiscrete about their conversation. “It’s my winning charm,” Lancelot said, and then held up a sealed paper.

“From Arthur,” he explained. “Permission to cross the Wall.”

Kai grinned, dangerously. “Oh, I’d love to see Arpagius try and stop us now.”

The Knights kicked their horses and rode out into the dawn light, together. And for once, Tristan thought, being together was good.

~~~

Gawain awoke.

When he considered it, he was slightly surprised to have done so. Shouldn’t he be dead by now?

He was still blindfolded and bound, feverish and lying on his back on the grass in what sounded like the middle of a Woad encampment. It said something about his fortunes of late that is was the most comfortable awakening he’d had in a long time. What an irony then, that he probably was about to die.

Gawain sensed a movement nearby, and someone seated themselves down on the floor by his side. There was a soft murmur of Woad speech and something was passed over his head.

He tensed, expecting a blow or a blade. He was surprised instead by a soft touch to his wounded shoulder, and it made him flinch; he pulled away with a noise of pain.

The Pictish language drifted about him again, before a closer voice spoke firmly in rough Latin.

“Be still. You are sick.”

Gawain _felt_ sick. He was weak and shaking, cold but consumed by a burning heat all at the same time. His pulse thudded strangely in his ears and he felt as if all his left side was throbbing. The Knight rolled his head fitfully to one side, but he could see nothing.

The Woad on his left brushed away the hair that was sticking to his face, before sliding a small hand under the back of neck and raising his head. A cup touched his lips, and a thousand thoughts ran through his feverish mind. Was this poison, some new method of humane execution? Perhaps they were drugging him as a precursor to interrogation. Perhaps... He quickly turned his head away.

“Drink, _Buidhecarden._ It is water only.”

The cup followed the movement of his head, and before Gawain could think anything else, he was drinking, and the cool, brackish water could have been the finest wine for the Pope’s table, it tasted so good to his parched mouth.

All too soon the cup was empty, and a cloth even wiped away the droplets that had run into his beard. Why were they doing this? Gawain’s mind felt numb, lethargic and he couldn’t make sense of what was happening.

_“Don’t worry,”_ said Tristan, sardonically. _“You never were the sharpest arrow in the quiver, even on a good day.”_

“Great,” he mumbled out loud, voice slurring. “I feel like I’m dying and I still have to put up with you lot.”

_“Gawain,_ ” said Arthur, gently. _“You are dying.”_

He sighed. “I know.”

Somewhere above him, the two Woads were talking rapidly, and their tones sounded anxious. The one with the familiar voice leaned forwards again.

“ _Buidhecarden,_ do you sleep?”

“No,” answered Gawain, hoarsely. “Who’re you?”

The Woad on his left, from the voice he thought it a woman, lifted Gawain’s bound wrists from resting on his torso and moved them to one side, before lifting his brigandine. Gawain felt a slight sensation of cold air on the skin of his abdomen, and the pressure of a bandage before the wound was covered up again. They must have dressed the stab wound already.

“I am Rian, she Fiachra. You killed the wolves for us.”

Gawain only vaguely took in the explanation as both sets of hands worked to peel the leather back off his shoulder wound. A freezing hand touched his burning, swollen skin and sent a hot dart of agony through his arm. He groaned, and twisted weakly.

“The skin has gone sour,” explained the Woad. “The blade sickness.”

_“It’s infected, badly,” s_ aid Dagonet.

Gawain hadn’t needed to be told; the smell of the infected pus was strong in the air and nearly made him gag. The female Woad spoke to the other, and there was a faint ceramic _chink_ as a vessel was placed on the floor. Gawain thought he smelled healing sage and garlic.

“Why are you helping me?” He asked.

There was a moment’s silence, before Rian answered.

“You bear Excalibur. You are protected this today.”

Fiachra said something quietly, and Rian translated.

“You helped us with the wolves. You should have killed us. Now be still,” he said, “We have taken out the arrow, and now must make clean the cut.”

_“Ouch,”_ said Ector, _“I’d be somewhere else if I was you.”_

_“You’ll be alright,”_ said Galahad with conviction. _“Just keep still, Gawain.”_

As the cloth dragged boiling hot water over the infected skin of his shoulder, Gawain decided to take Ector’s advice, and passed out.

 

 

 

 


	10. Buidhecarden

Bors straightened up from his inspection of the grass and rubbed his face wearily, the afternoon sun barely warm on the back of his shaven head.

“Anything?” Bors asked as Galahad and Perceval galloped up.

Perceval answered, his voice tight. “No. Nothing.” Galahad just shook his head, unnaturally quiet.

The big Sarmatian surveyed the two-day-old battle field, and muttered a curse under his breath. The bodies of the dead Woads had vanished, carried away by the natives to who knew where, but the horse corpses lay about still and ensured the stench of death and blood had never really left the air, even after yesterday’s rain.

Lancelot joined them from the other side, leading his horse and looking tense and stressed. Bors looked around the field once more.

“We’ve been all the way to the trees and back, Lance. I don’t...”

“Well look again!” snapped Lancelot, and Bors saw him throw an anxious glance past his head at Galahad. The Knight sat staring at the ground, unaware of the looks. He and Gawain had been nearly inseparable, and Gawain’s death would affect him worse than any before now. Bors knew he wasn’t the only one expecting the youngest, most impulsive Knight to lose control and be taken over by the destructive anger that so often drove him, demanding revenge and retribution until he burned himself out. But instead, the older knight’s death seemed to have provoked an opposite reaction. After the near-altercation in the tavern the night before last, the boy had barely said two words to the others and not one during their fruitless search of the field, seeming to drift behind Perceval almost a ghost. Gawain’s death had changed him alright, but not how anyone had expected, and Bors could only hope the change would just be temporary or he would have ended up losing two friends that day.

“All right, all right, we’ll keep looking,” Bors grunted at Lancelot. “You’re the boss.” He climbed back into the saddle, and turned his horse back around.

“Much as I hate to say it, we’re nearly out time.” Perceval reminded them. “We have to be back at the Wall before nightfall, or they’ll lock the gates.”

“I know.” Lancelot’s frustration was no greater than any of theirs. “But there has to be something. He didn’t just disappear-”

Lancelot stopped suddenly as there was a shout from across the field, and squinting into the sun Bors saw one of the Knights drop down from horseback into the grass near a small rise.

“Ector’s got something,” he said. “Come on!”

The other Knights didn’t need telling twice. Lancelot jumped up into the saddle and kicked his horse, the beast leapt after the others as they galloped across the field to where Tristan and Ector were searching. Kai was riding to join the group from the other side.

As they approached, Bors saw Ector was lifting something from the grass, Tristan watching silently.

“Ector?”

The Knight held up the object for them to see. It was Gawain’s sword; the blade was sheered straight through an inch or two above the hilt.

“Damn it.” Bors swore. Everyone else was quiet. Somehow seeing that little piece of Gawain made his loss all the more real, and many of the Knights looked down at the ground. The pain was like a physical blow, even to a veteran like Bors. Images of the mutilated corpses he’d once seen at Branodunum after a Saxon raid drifted into his mind; the way their eyeless sockets staring up at the grey sky. He clenched his fists, furious. There was a distant thud of hooves, and Dagonet rode up to join them.

“I have this too.” He said, and held out a long wooden handle, the splintered haft of Gawain’s axe. The head was broken off, and looked odd and functionless alone.

Without a word, Ector passed both weapons to Galahad, and the younger Knight took them, dazedly.

“Anyone see anything of Excalibur?” said Lancelot, and the tone of his voice said he hated having to ask.

The other Knights shook their heads. No Excalibur, no Gawain. And they were out of time.

Perceval sighed. “It feels like we’ve let him down all over again,” he murmured. Bors scowled at him for saying it, but he had to agree.

“We have his sword,” reminded Kai. “He can receive a warrior’s funeral now.” The red-headed Knight nudged his horse closer to Galahad’s, unpinning his cloak as he did so. The boy was staring at Gawain’s sword hilt as if it was about to start speaking to him. It took Kai calling his name twice to drag him from his daze.

“Here,” said Kai calmly, and took the broken weapons. He wrapped them carefully in his cloak like a shroud, and passed them back to the youngest knight. Galahad took the bundle and held it so tightly his fingers went white. Bors looked around at the silent Knights tiredly, and wondered if any of them had really slept at all over the last two nights.

There was a bitter cry from the sky above and a flutter of wings as Tristan’s hawk, Yseult, fell from the sky and landed on the scout’s arm. Tristan murmured something and let her nip at his finger.

“There are Woads on the move,” he said, “Heading this way.” Bors rolled his eyes but said nothing about Tristan and his bloody bird.

“Come,” said Dagonet. “This place has seen enough death. We should go.”

The Knights turned south and left the battlefield behind once more, and the betrayal felt even more painful than before.

   
~~~  


 “ _Buidhecarden?_ ”A hand shook him awake, and the voice whispered in Gawain’s ear, and for a moment he was confused. That didn’t sound like one of the Knights. Then he remembered the Woads.

“Fiachra?” He asked hoarsely.

“ _Sàmhach_ ,” said the woman, and the cool hand pressed over his mouth made the meaning of the word obvious.

She pulled firmly at his sleeve and then just like that, she was gone. Gawain blinked behind the blindfold, trying to shake off the heavy sleep that lay over him. He drew his bound hands up to his chest and carefully rolled over onto his right side, and then up to sitting. The hot burn of pain in his abdomen raced through him unchecked and felt his lungs spasm, leaving him breathless and disorientated.

 _“Easy there,”_ said Kai, steadying his shoulder. _“Take shallow breaths.”_

“I’m not...listening to you,” Gawain mumbled, breathlessly. “You’re not even real.”

 _“True,”_ admitted Kai, “ _But you know I’m right all the same.”_

After a couple of breaths, the pain died down and Gawain was surprised to find it better than before, more manageable. The sleep, water and rest, combined with whatever dubious treatment the Woads had provided had done enough to make him feel somewhat renewed. Not healed yet, but stronger. Just then he heard the softest limping footfalls as the Woad returned.

She said nothing else to him, but pushed a wooden cup into his hands. Awkwardly, and wincing at the movement of his broken collarbone, Gawain managed to raise bound hands to his mouth, and quickly swallowed down the water. It was wonderful.

Fiachra took the cup away from his hand, and replaced it with something else; it felt like a soft stringy leaf. The Knight just sat there unsure what to do, until the Woad, clearly impatient, took the object back, and pushed it into his mouth for him.

“ _Ith,_ _fudaidh_.” She hissed. He chewed automatically, and recognised the familiar bitter taste of willow-bark. It would help dull the pain and fever even more.

Then, the woman was standing up, and pulling on his sleeve again. He had to stand for some reason. He was being taken somewhere. To be executed? Rian said he had a reprieve for one day. But if his death was sanctioned, why was Fiachra so keen to keep him quiet? And why treat his wounds?

The Woad tugged insistently again, and Gawain rose, slowly. He felt hands on his arms to steady him, and wasn’t sure if they belonged to the Woad or one of his hallucinations. Either way, he finally made it to his feet, and Fiachra, by a handful of his hair this time, dragged him stumbling away. He wondered for a moment about over-powering her and fleeing, though Woad women were notoriously fierce, and even injured as this one was she might prove more than an adversary to him right now. Also, it seemed a little ungracious to attack the one of the only living things in this accursed forest that hadn’t tried to kill him yet.

Gawain stumbled on a root. Cursing, he raised his hands, intending to pull away the annoying blindfold, but a cold hand on his stopped him.

 _“Sguir,_ _Buidhecarden”_ she said, and for some reason he did stop.

Having been intent up to now on counting his improved pains, Gawain took a moment to absorb his immediate surroundings. He was still in the forest, but the air was cooler than before but not yet cold, so it was probably afternoon or evening. He thought he could hear voices in the distance but the trees muffled his perception and he wasn’t sure how far away they were. The Woad tugged his hair sharply and he managed not to growl, trying to quicken his pained steps to match her limping ones as he stumbled blindly after her.

Finally, the distant voices he heard faded from perception, and the grip on his hair went slack as Fiachra stopped. Dizzy and exhausted, Gawain stumbled sideways and found a sturdy tree to lean against, breathing heavily. He couldn’t hear the Woad; he hoped she was still there because he was completely disorientated.

 _“Maybe you should seduce her,_ ” suggested Lancelot. _“And then maybe she’d help you escape.”_

 _Seduce?_ Gawain thought, _Lancelot, are you out of your tiny mind? I can hardly stand up and I think I might be slowly bleeding to death. Seduction is not really appropriate right now._

 _“Actually, I’m out of your tiny mind. Besides,” _ snorted Lancelot, _“That’s just quitter’s talk. Seduction is never inappropriate.”_

 _“Oh really?”_ said Ector, from the other side, _“What about that time when you went off with the daughter of that visiting Roman Governor, except she turned out to be his wife, and-”_

 _“Alright, alright,”_ said Lancelot, hurriedly. _“Apart from that time.”_

  _Besides,_ said Gawain, silently, trying to get his hallucinated knights back under control, _I have enough Woads trying to kill me without adding Rian to that score as well._

 As if his thoughts had conjured the Woad up, he suddenly heard Rian’s voice to his left, speaking softly with Fiachra. Their conversation in Pictish ended, and the pair quickly approached the Knight.

 “Rian?”

 “ _Buidhecarden._ You may go,” said the Woad in Latin.

 “What?” asked Gawain, numb and confused. He had not really expected mercy from the Woads, because, well, he didn’t deserve it. How many of this boy’s kinfolk had he killed over the years?

 “Your reprieve is ended,” said Rian. “The Elders voted, you were to die tomorrow. But we still felt we owed you the Blood-debt, and now it is repaid.”

 While he had been speaking, the Woad had unbound his hands and slipped the blindfold off his eyes. Gawain blinked, even the tree-green light seemed dazzling in his eyes and they watered. The two Woads slowly came into focus; pale blue shapes against the dark leaves. They had untied him. They were letting him go.

 “Won’t you be in trouble?” He asked, not knowing what else to say.

 “You escaped,” said Rian, “They may suspect. But Fiachra has visions, from the goddess. If they question it, she can have told us to release you.”

 The female Woad watched them impassively. The religious duplicity made the Knight feel rather dazed but he said nothing.

 “We led you in rings,” Rian continued, “So you will not find your way back. But the Wall is that way.” He pointed.

 Gawain nodded. “Thank you,” he breathed, knowing the words were inadequate.

 The Woad nodded, and said; “There is this too.” He lifted a bundle that had remained unnoticed at his feet, and handed it the Gawain. The yellow fabric was instantly familiar; it was his tattered cloak, and wrapped inside was a packet containing a little more willow bark, the crude sling he had been wearing when he was captured, and, wonder of wonders, Excalibur.

 Gawain stared at the beautiful sword for a long time, his brain too tired to comprehend what had just happened.

  _“Let’s see...”_ said Bors, counting off on his fingers. _“Knight is injured by Woads. Knight accidently finds ancestral magic sword, sacred to said Woads. Knight gets captured by said Woads carrying said magic sword. Instead of executing him immediately as a thief and a spy, Woads treat Knight very nicely and return magic sword to him before letting him go_.”

 It might be just the trauma of his injuries but to Gawain’s mind it made no sense at all.

 " _Nope,”_ said Bors. _“For once, Gawain, your mind ain’t faulty. It don’t make any sense.”_

 Perceval shrugged. _“Maybe they’re not all the savages we think they are.”_

 Gawain looked up from the sword to find the Woads had vanished. Presumably they had taken his preoccupation as a chance to slip away, so he wouldn’t see which way they went.

 “Thank you!” he called hoarsely, hoping they would hear, but recieved only silence as a response.

 Painfully, the Knight tucked his arm back into the sling, and the relief as the weight was lifted off the infected wound and broken collarbone was indescribable. He peered at the stab wound on his side; the Woads seemed to have wrapped more bandages on top of the cloths already there. Blood hadn’t soaked through the outer layer yet; he hoped that meant it wasn’t still bleeding. Time to go, while the benefits of the day’s rest and willow bark were still in his favour. Gawain pulled away from the support of the tree, slid Excalibur into his empty belt ring, and turned south.

 

 


	11. The intelligent, the witty and the brave

It did not take long for fever and infection and bloodloss to take over. Gawain slowly lost all sense of himself, and he walked in a dream of blood and burning fever-heat and hallucinations.

 He no longer knew where he was going, or what direction he should take. Perceval and Agravaine seemed to be happy enough to guide him though, either walking ahead for him to follow, or gently pulling at his sleeve when he seemed to falter.

_“This way_ ,” said Agravaine. _“South. Come on.”_

  _“Don’t rush the boy,”_ said Tor, who had also turned up. _“He’s not up to it.”_

 “Shut up,” Gawain had told them. “I don’t have to listen to criticism from dead people.”

  _“You tell ‘em, boy_.” said Dinaden.

 “That goes for you, too.”

 A squirrel scampering up a tree made him jump, and Bors very nearly impaled it with his knife. 

_“Sorry,”_ he grunted with a grin. _“As well as not defeating a deadly squirrel attack, I didn’t get me dinner either.”_ After that, Bors put his knife away, but continued to be vigilant, walking ahead.

 Ector and Kai and Lancelot walked behind him and on his right. Mostly they teased and joked, told lewd stories, funny stories, sad stories. Gawain had heard them all before of course, but they reminded him of home and safety, and he kept walking, even though it hurt. 

 Galahad was there too, on his left, with Dagonet. The elder man was silent, but his support was strong all the same. Once he nudged Gawain’s elbow, and murmured, _“Chew some more bark Gawain.”_ He had done so, and only then realised that he had nearly been passing out on the pain.

 Galahad, on the other hand, was not silent, keeping up a constant litany of praise and encouragement and wheedling, to keep going, don’t stop, you-can-do-it. And Gawain found he did keep going, just because he couldn’t bear to disappoint the young man.

 Gawain didn’t see Tristan, but he saw Yseult fly over head and knew the man was there, in the trees, watching his back. He felt safe.

 And so Gawain stumbled on, unaware of his surroundings, unaware of the trees and the roots, and the sinking sun and evening mists, and just focussed on the Knights around him, the dead and the living, the hallucinations and the memories and let them guide him home.

~~~

 Arthur walked slowly amongst the small mounds, the blood red light of the sunset sky glinted off the grave swords. He remembered Lancelot once telling him how the world would end when the wolves that chased the golden chariot across the sky every day finally caught it and devoured the sun.

 The little cemetery was peacefully silent, but that was not unusual. Normally, the graveyard was empty. The Christian Romans never went there at all unless commanded, and the Knights only went there on funerals, solstices or festivals for the dead that Arthur didn’t understand. There was no-one there today. The wind was from the west too, so he could not even hear the noise of the town below. 

 Arthur studied each sword as he passed the mound in stood in, remembering the one who had once wielded it in his name, and whose earthly forms now slept in the earth beneath his feet. Agravaine. Dinaden. Gaheris and Pelleas, who had died on the same day. Lamorak. Erec. At last he reached the empty grave of Tor. You could not tell to look at that it housed no body; the knights had piled the earth as high as if the man did indeed sleep beneath it, and his sword stood as proudly at the head as any other. Arthur sighed, and wondered where the Knight’s bones now lay, and if Gawain’s were near. Tonight, if they had found Gawain’s sword, the knights would hold the funerary rites for Gawain. They would roast an animal, a sheep or a goat, and make offerings to gods Arthur did not know. Fires would be lit, ritual words spoken over them that he did not understand and were never written down, and they would take turns in sitting vigil over a corpse that was not there. And then, they would bury all his possessions in that sad little cemetery, raise a mound above his grave and mark it with his sword. And then they would never go there again, until the next death.

 His Knights were not Christian, they did not need or want to be interred in consecrated ground. But Arthur knew that without this, they could never enter the Kingdom of Heaven and it grieved him. One day, no matter how long they all survived this war, they would be parted forever, and Arthur would finally take a road down which even he could not lead them. 

 He thought about Gawain. His rock. It was no secret that Lancelot was one of Arthur’s most favoured Knights. Their friendship was unbreakable; a meeting of passionate, determined minds. Lancelot stopped him slipping into complacency. Every order he gave, he knew Lancelot was watching, analysing. They fought, oh so often, as Lancelot’s fiery intelligence met his own, but it meant he knew every decision was evaluated from all angles until it was right. Lancelot drove him to be better than he was. And Gawain? Gawain was the foundations on which he could build. Gawain never questioned, never argued, because Gawain would follow Arthur anywhere. Gawain did not demand Arthur justify himself, he just believed in him. The power of that faith and trust was more humbling to Arthur than any of Lancelot’s best arguments. 

The Pagan graveyard was not the most conventional place for Christian prayer, but when you lead a soldier’s life, you soon learn to speak to God anywhere you can. Arthur knelt awkwardly, holding his splinted broken arm tightly to his chest, and lowered his head. Then he prayed for Gawain’s soul, that he should somehow find peace, and one day make his way home. And that Arthur would somehow manage to go on without him.

When Arthur opened his eyes, full evening had fallen, and a low mist clung to the grass and lay dew drops on his cloak. He heard a distant shouting at the gates as the Knights were finally spotted from the Wall top, and he stiffly climbed to his feet, hoping against hope that they had been successful in finding Gawain’s sword or body.  He did not even notice he had no thought for Excalibur.

 ~~~

The willow bark had run out. Gawain thought his fever might be worse, but the world had simplified into one step after the other. He saw things in the evening mist; shapes and moving shadows. Hoards of Saxons, and Inish ghosts that had swirled up from fog around him, lifting swords or corpse lights, holding out freezing hands to touch his burning skin.

It was when he saw the dragon that Gawain realised he really was in trouble. The wyrm-beast was coiled across the road in front of him like the knotwork on a swordblade, and it starred at him with malevolent red eyes. He had paused then, heart racing, but he was not alone.

_“Don’t be afraid,”_ Dagonet said, as if they were just children again and Gawain was scared of the fists of their first commander.

_"It’s just ghosts, Gawain,”_ said Bors, holding him up. _“Just pass them by.”_

_“This way!”_ Agravaine had called from ahead, and Gawain made to follow the voice though he could not see. His legs didn’t want to move, and the world seemed to tilt and slide around him, and suddenly, Gawain was on the floor, huddled and shaking.

“ _Gawain,”_ said a quietly compelling voice, and he could not disobey, looking up with heavy eyes. All the Knights had vanished, except for one, silhouetted against the raw red moon and rising mists like a mighty standing stone.

“I don’t think I can do this...” Gawain whispered. His head was spinning and he felt as if he was slowly burning alive.

 " _You can,”_ said Arthur. _“You must. Galahad needs you, Gawain. I need you. If you were gone, who would stop the Knights from killing each other?”_

Gawain huffed a painful laugh, and then hung his head, letting his hair swing forward as he just breathed.

" _Come,”_ said Arthur, kindly. _“You are nearly home.”_

Home? Thought Gawain, muzzily. The village? Sarmatia?

He looked up, and saw the Wall. Somehow, unnoticed, he had left the forest behind and walked out into the open, and there it was. The mighty barrier stretched across the evening horizon like a great shadow, the tiny pinpricks of torchlight like fireflies in the darkness. Behind that wall was the Roman Empire. Order, power, civilisation. Dominion. And here to the north there was chaos, wildness, something primitive, dangerous and forlorn. And there he stood, poised between them both. A barbarian fighting on the frontier of a Roman world. A pagan who believed in a Christian.

Arthur stepped forward, and held out his hand to Gawain. The Knight looked up at him and wordlessly took it. Arthur smiled as he pulled Gawain up to his feet, and Gawain realised the other knights were still there, standing around quietly watching.

Arthur turned and walked towards the Wall. There was no question of doing anything else; Gawain stepped forward, and followed him, the mist swirling about his feet, and the Knights fell into place around them.

The last push. The last few steps, and this would all be over. Somehow, they were the hardest steps he’d ever taken.

Gawain stumbled into something, and stopped, confused. He slowly opened his eyes. Stone, hewn into great blocks, towering up above him to block out the early stars, the battlement crenellations like the teeth of a giant. The Wall. He had made it. He pressed his forehead against the cold stone and nearly wept.

He had made it, but night had fallen. The gate was shut, the thick wooden doors sealed immovably unless one bore a signed pass. The guards wouldn’t see him until morning, and he knew he wouldn’t last until then. It was too late.

The little strength Gawain had gained from the Woad’s treatments was finally gone. He crumpled to the grass and lay on his back. Something made him open his eyes, and he saw that the Knights, his hallucinations, had gathered round him and he looked up at the faces of his brothers.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Galahad knelt down beside him and said,

“Gawain?”

 

 

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is from Edna St. Vincent Millay's beautiful Dirge without Music.
> 
> For disclaimers and warnings, see Chapter One.


	12. Glory Paid To Ashes

The Knights rode in silence as the sun slipped down in the sky. 

Tonight they would bury Gawain’s broken axe. They would build a mound above it and raise his sword up as a monument. Then they would take it in turns to sit by his empty grave for two nights, or drink until they passed out. And then the day after, they would wake up and they would carry on, as if nothing had happened, and they would never talk about it again. But there would be one more empty seat at the Round Table, another spare bed in the barracks, a riderless horse in the stables, and they would all hate the world just a little bit more.

Galahad stared down at the bundle he carried, and tried to feel something now. These weapons were part of Gawain. The last tangible link to his friend, his brother, and tomorrow they would lie in his place in the cold earth and rot, rust away to dust. There would be nothing left.

Galahad looked at the bundle, and felt...nothing. For the first time in his adult life, there was nothing. The anger that fed him and sustained him was gone, leaving just a blank, hollow, emptiness. It wasn’t meant to be this way.

“Galahad?”

He looked up, and realised he’d fallen behind, his horse slowing almost to a stop. The other Knights had paused, and turned back to look at him. The pitying looks on their faces made a mockery of the emotions that were missing in him.

“You alright, lad?” said Ector, in a cautiously worried way that made Galahad think he’d called his name several times already.

Galahad looked down at the bundle. “It’s not fair,” he said, hoarsely.

Bors sighed and nodded. “You’re right. It ain’t fair.”

“I mean,” said Galahad, mumbling. “I mean. It shouldn’t happen...We shouldn’t have been out there, and it shouldn’t have to be Gawain, and we shouldn’t even be on this fucking island, and...”

“We know, Galahad,” said Perceval, quietly.

This was the point where Gawain would have ridden back, and put his arm round Galahad’s shoulders and drag him into a tight hug. Galahad would pretend to hate it, but suddenly everything would be just a bit less shit.

Nobody moved.

“Come on,” said Lancelot, at last. “We should make it back to the Wall before nightfall, or they’ll have to get Arthur up to unlock the gates.”

The younger man nodded, but didn’t move yet. He was so tired. Tired of hating and fighting and grieving. Tired of losing people. Tired of this stupid life.

“Dagonet, will you...” He asked, voice suddenly choking. “I mean, with his things? I don’t know what to do...”

The big man nodded, knowing what Galahad was asking. “We will honour him, regardless of where he now sleeps.”

“ _Cineri gloria sera est_ ,” said Tristan suddenly, taking them all by surprise. 

“Tristan…” said Kai, warningly. The Scout shrugged and turned away.

_ Glory paid to ashes comes too late. _ Tristan really did choose the most inappropriate moments to share his wisdom, but secretly, each Knight couldn’t help but agree with the Scout. It was definitely too late. But that was life and, yes it was shit, but it wouldn’t make the situation any better by pointing that out. Galahad vaguely wondered where the man had heard the phrase, or if he had just made it up. Reluctantly, he kicked his horse and she started to walk slowly, catching the others up. The Knights waited for him to join them, and then turned back to the road in silence.

~~~

The sun set in a blaze of red flame amidst towering clouds of burning gold; sacrifices at the funeral pyre of a mighty god. The slight hilltop the Knights rode down gave a long vista; the Wall was visible as a black silhouette across the land even from here, nearly a mile away. The sweep of darkening trees guided them towards the Wall Gate, even as the evening mists started to gather on the grass and swallow up the road.

 The blood in the sky and wisping fog on the ground was an eerie combination, and Galahad shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the fast chill of the autumn evening on his bare arms and everything to do with the fact that he hadn’t slept or eaten in three days, and what did any of it matter anyway because Gawain was dead. Galahad clutched the bundle of Gawain’s weapons a little tighter and realised his eyes were blurring. Gawain was dead. He half closed his eyes against the tears, and the forms of the Knights riding ahead of him turned to dancing shadows that merged with the swirling mists until everything was insubstantial and unmeaningful. He could live in a world like that forever.

A creaking groaning noise shook him from his reverie, and he looked up. They were at the Wall at last and the guards were slowly drawing open the massive gates, torchlight spilling out and mist spilling in. Unnatural light meeting swirling, clinging wildness at the liminalportal between these two worlds. Lancelot rode through, followed by Kai and the others, but Galahad found himself suddenly reigning in his horse, reluctant to make that last move. This would be the last act of his brotherhood with Gawain. Abandonment.

He turned and looked out over the low mists and the distant forests, the wildness of Britain that had swallowed Gawain up into its darkness. A horse snuffled behind him, and Galahad reluctantly looked back to the gatehouse. Dagonet was waiting for him, expressionless; Tristan on his horse sat just beyond, silent and watching. Galahad finally noticed the few tears that had spilled over onto his face and they felt as if they burned. He pushed them away angrily.

“Come on,” said Dagonet, kindly. “We’re nearly home.”

_This will never be my home,_ Galahad thought, viciously, but said nothing. They were all being cautious and pitying and kind around him, as if no-one knew who he was without Gawain. He wasn’t sure he knew.

Galahad nudged his horse forwards and followed Dag and Tristan through the gate. Warmth and light engulfed him, and just at the last point of the threshold, he turned back once more to look out into the dark.

And saw him.

Blood stained, battered and pale as death, Gawain rising from the shadowy ground like a barrow ghost. Mist swirled and danced, and the figure was gone again, but the glimpse had been enough to nearly stop Galahad’s heart. He must have shouted something, because Dagonet and Tristan were galloping back, weapons drawn, and he could hear more hooves as the others rode back to them.

“What is it?” said Tristan, poised and ready, but Galahad spurred his horse back out through the gate.

“I saw Gawain!” he shouted, calling them, “Quick!” He threw himself from the saddle, mist rising about his legs like ghostly fingers.

“Galahad...” said Ector behind him, but Galahad cut him off.

“Shut up and look!” He cried, and there was pure terror in his voice that he couldn’t control. It seemed to have an effect on the other Knights though, and he heard others dismounting and calling out as he strode through the rising fog, eyes burning for that familiar form he’d seen through the shifting mists. Just a second, but it had been enough.

There! A dark form in the grass, a body. Galahad was so frightened he was hallucinating that for a moment he couldn’t draw breath to utter a sound. Then the numbness passed, and he was running forwards, yelling wildly.

“Here! Here!”

The Knights were beside him in a moment, and then it seemed none of them could move as they finally saw what he had seen.

For there was Gawain. Bleeding, dishevelled, and filthy, but impossibly, unbelievably _there_. Galahad threw himself down beside him and tried to speak, but it came out as a croak. The curled figure on the ground opened swollen eyes, and looked around at them all wearily.

“Sorry,” Gawain whispered.

Galahad was crying so hard he could barely speak.

“Gawain?” he managed, and touched the other’s shoulder, hesitantly. Blood-slickened leather met his fingers. Real armour. Real blood. This was real.

The name seemed to break the spell the Knights were under, and there was a storm of movement and shouting. Dagonet and Bors darted forwards to Gawain, calling his name and pressing down on bleeding wounds and covering him with their own cloaks. Ector was trying to grab hold of everybody’s horses before they bolted, Lancelot and Perceval were running to the gatehouse shouting for aid. Kai was past them, mounted and riding back to the main fort like lightning to raise Arthur and the healers.

Galahad let the sound and action wash over him like a flood. He sat there with his hand on Gawain’s shoulder, one small contact that meant everything, and let his mind go numb. Knights were speaking and moving around him but there was too much to deal with.

A hand on his own shoulder, and someone was guiding him to stand.

“Galahad, you’re in the way.” Tristan was speaking. Galahad let himself be moved back as Lancelot and a few Legionnaires (where had they come from?) arrived with a makeshift litter.

“Tris...” Galahad croaked, but didn’t even know what he wanted to say.

“I know, Pup,” said the Scout. He didn’t smile, but there was a softness around his mouth that suggested maybe he did know after all. “Come on.”

The Knights were just arguing about how to move Gawain onto the litter when the Knight in question opened his eyes again with a start.

“Easy,” said Dagonet quietly. “You’re alright, Gawain.”

“Ow.” The injured Knight said, croakily.

Lancelot snorted.  “Understatement, Gawain...” he said, as he pressed down on a wound.

Gawain’s eyes met Galahad’s. To the young Knight’s surprise, Gawain pushed his arms out and seemed to be trying to sit up.

“Woah, take it easy...”Lancelot said, alarmed, but Gawain just leaned forwards a little and pulled ineffectually at the sword tucked in his belt, partially hidden in the grass. Thinking that lying half on the weapon must be uncomfortable, Galahad quickly leaned down and helped Gawain pull the sword free.  

“Better take it,” Gawain mumbled, before a gentle pressure on his shoulder by Dagonet persuaded the injured Knight to lie back down.

Galahad took the sword automatically, and barely glanced at it, before he realised with a small shock the weapon he now held was Excalibur.

“Gawain...what...?”

“Tell Arthur...to take care of his own bloody sword next time...” Gawain whispered, and fell asleep to the sound of Lancelot laughing.

 

 

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For disclaimers and warnings, see Chapter One


	13. All We Need Now Is Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bloody battle violence and descriptions of injuries. Rated for language.

For a long time there was nothingness, interspaced with fragmented patches of light and colour, and usually sensations of heat or pain. Gawain heard voices, snatches of conversation real and remembered and half made up; Latin, English, Pictish, even Saxon. Occasionally he heard his own name, but he couldn’t respond. It was so hot, even breathing was hard, and there was the smell of something rotten in the air.

“Gawain, can you hear...”

  “...badly infected...”

“Dear God, a _wolf_ bite?”

“...had help. He couldn’t have stitched this himself...”

“…he going to make it?”

“…I’m sorry…”

  
~~~

  
“Easy, Gawain,” came Kai’s quiet voice, and he rolled his head, fitfully trying to turn towards the sound. Something blissfully cool was wiped over his forehead and pulled him back down into darkness.  


~~~

 

He fought wolves. Thousands and thousands of them on the edge of a deep river filled with staring dead-eyed woads. Galahad stood by his side.

“Fight it, Gawain. I know you can. We’re all here. Don’t let go now. Not after everything.”

 

~~~

 

“Hold his arms!” Someone was saying. It was a good voice, familiar. One that meant safety.

“I’ve got him! Lancelot, can you...”

“Gawain, be still, it’s alright-”

“Can he even hear you?”

“It’s the fever...”

“Please, Gawain!”

~~~

 

The forest went on forever. He’d never escape, wandering on and on until he wore through and crumbled into dust. But then the Woads caught him and tied him up and shouted at with words he didn’t understand. Something was being pushed against his mouth. The Woads were going to kill him... poison....He turned his head away, painfully,

_“Knight! Will you just drink it! This is ridiculous.”_

 Not a good voice. Latin. Arthur spoke Latin, but not angrily like this, and never to them. An enemy, then. Gawain kept his mouth closed.

“’e’s more likely to listen if you don’t tie him down an’ yell at him!”

_“What? What are you jabbering on about now? Go away! Stop coming to this room, he doesn’t need lots of people confusing him when he’s delirious like this.”_

Another voice. Sarmatian again, another brother. “No, Roman. What he needs is care and patience and his friends. That will heal him much faster than your Roman potions. Give me the cup.”

Perceval, ever the philosopher.

_“I have no idea what you’re saying, barbarian, but if you want to waste your time here, be my guest. I have other patients to attend to.”_

He heard footsteps and movement, and then someone was beside him, tugging at his sore wrists. Gawain opening his eyes to see nothing but blurry shadows. He tried to move but it was too hard now. Bors’s comforting rumble and a steadying hand on his chest calmed him.

“Hold still, Gawain, I’m just takin’ these restraints off. Bloody Romans.”

“Here,” said Perceval quietly, tilting the cup to his mouth. “You’ve made your point, Gawain, so stop being stubborn. We’ll sit here all day if we have to. Not going anywhere.”

If he thought he could manage it, Gawain would have smiled. He drank all the water instead, because Perceval asked him to.

He vomited it straight back up all over Bors shortly after, but that wasn’t the point.  


~~~

 

Time passed and now there were arguing voices, loud and painful; too many and too close.

_Crash._

 “What! What the hell?”

“Arthur!”

“Don’t you even think about it, you little shit!”

“Arthur, if he even tries it, I swear...”

“Knights, I know how you feel, but - ”

Someone cut over Arthur, in Latin. _“What’s wrong with them? Don’t they understand, if I don’t do this, the Knight will die! I’m trying to help him!”_

“No! I’m with Bors. If you even touch Gawain again, _medicus_ , I’ll kill you myself...”

“Galahad! Calm down, you’re not helping.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Ector! I can’t believe you’re even considering this...Kai, let me go!”

“No-one likes this anymore that you, Galahad, so stop taking your anger out on everyone else. This is hard enough as it is.”

“Arthur!”

“Everyone, stop, right now. Lancelot, Galahad...I would rather almost anything else than this. But one of the only things I would not rather is for Gawain to die. We’ve only just got him back! We... _I_ can’t lose him again. I won’t. I’m no healer, but even I can see the infection is spreading. If amputating his arm saves his life, then I will order it done. I’d do anything to save him.”

“That won’t save him, Arthur! You’ll kill him, as surely as if you’d shot him yourself.”

“Watch your tongue, Pup...”

“He won’t die from losing an arm, Galahad. If this last week proves anything, it’s that Gawain’s a survivor.”

“No. No, this...this _procedure_ would kill him. He couldn’t live like that. I know it.”

“At least have Dagonet look at him! A second opinion, Arthur...”

“I was going to suggest that, Lancelot, before you all started threatening to kill everyone! Just calm down. Tristan, go find him.”

Gawain drifted off to sleep again as the voices quietened, but woke as irate Latin flowed over him. It really was a horrible language.

_“You can’t be serious, Artorius! What is that barbarian going to know that -”_

_“Cipio, you call one of my Knights a barbarian again and there’s going to be trouble._ Dagonet?”

“Arthur.” There was a creak of leather, and someone sat down by his side. Gawain felt a large, gentle hand on his sweat-dampened forehead for a moment, before it moved to his shoulder and arm, cool against his burning skin. He couldn’t help issuing a soft noise of pain as Dagonet inspected the festering wound.

“It’s alright, Gawain.” Dagonet murmured automatically, and squeezed his wrist gently, before standing and turning away. There was silence in the room, though Gawain could muzzily hear the Knights’ breathing. Waiting.

“It won’t help.”

There was s scrape as several people stood up.

_“What? What did he say, Artorius?”_

“What do you mean? Is he going to be alright?”

“I didn’t say that, Galahad. He’s very weak. A procedure like amputation would do as much harm as good.”

_“Artorius, don’t listen to this! We need to amputate, or the infection will spread and your man will die! He is weak and getting worse, too weak to fight this!”_

“It’s not going to happen, Arthur, so forget it! I won’t let him...”

“Dag, are you saying he has as much chance either way?”

“Yes, Kai, far as I can tell. Arthur. Your call.”

At this point, Gawain decided things had gone on long enough. He gave a faint cough and turned his head, blinking bleary eyes open. The world swam dizzily but he could just make out Galahad and the Knights at the end of the bed, and Arthur and Cipio the Roman _medicus_ to one side.

“He’s awake?”

“Shit, we shouldn’t have been having this conversation in here...”

“Gawain?”

Dagonet ignored the others and crouched back down beside him, squeezing his hand as Galahad bounded up on his other side.

“Gawain?”

Gawain coughed again, and mumbled something at his friends. Galahad leaned in.

“Say again, Gawain?”

Gawain repeated himself, and then closed his eyes tiredly as Galahad patted his good shoulder.

“It’s alright Gawain. Don’t worry about it.”

He heard Dagonet stand and turn back to the others.

“What did he say?” demanded Kai.

“Message for Cipio...” Gawain could almost hear Galahad smiling.

And then Dagonet repeated his message for the Roman, but in perfect Latin.

_“Gawain said; ‘Too weak to fight? Fuck you, Cipio. I like my arm.’”_

Gawain fell asleep to the sound of the medicus’s splutterings of anger and Bors’s guffawing laughter.

 

~~~  


His fever broke a day later. It was a turning point, but there was still a long way to go. He might be out of the physical woods, but the metaphorical ones loomed yet.

Despite Gawain’s inability to stay awake for more than about an hour at a time, the Knights seemed to have made the _Valetudinarium_ their new gathering place. He didn’t know if it was chance or design, but there was always someone there when he woke up, and he was absurdly grateful for it.

When they were around the sick room, the other Knights did a lot of talking. Gawain had been treated to the full story of Arthur’s injury, Lancelot’s incarceration, Tristan’s death threats to Arpagius and how Arthur finally threw the General out of the fort; though he wasn’t sure how much was embellishment and how much had been left out. Arthur himself had told him about the Knights confinement to the fort and their desperate search for Gawain, though none of the Knights would speak of that part of the tale.

“It was...not good,” was the only description Ector offered, with a quick glance at Galahad. Gawain decided he really didn’t want to know anymore.

Gawain was, of course, pressed for details of his own ‘adventure’. He told them of the forest journey and the battle with the wolves, Excalibur, and a little of his capture in the Woads' camp. He felt oddly reluctant to talk about how Fiachra and Rian had saved his life, and finally settled for saying he escaped. At first he wondered if he was ashamed, and then he realised. One day, one of the Knights, Gawain himself even, might kill one of them, the Woads that had rescued him from death. Or one day they might kill a Knight. He didn’t know how he felt about that, so he kept quiet and said nothing.  


~~~  
 

Five days after dragging himself from the forest, the infection was still refusing to abate, and Gawain hovered on the edge of fever once more. The _medicus_ and Dagonet finally agreed the wound in his shoulder had to be cauterized, a procedure that left him weaker than a new born foal and sick to his stomach. Arthur and Dagonet stayed by his side the whole time, but finally it was over.

He woke on the evening of the sixth day to quiet conversation and to Dagonet binding his shoulder. The big Knight smiled slightly.

“The infection is purged, Gawain. All we need now is time.” Gawain nodded, in relief. He mostly been unaware as the fever ran its course, but knowing he’d been close to losing his arm was horrifying. Galahad had been right about that. He couldn’t have lived that way for long. After all what use was a one armed soldier, and he was nothing else.

He looked past Dagonet to see his other brothers-at-arms gathered about the room. The empty beer flagons by Galahad, Lancelot, Ector and Bors and dice game in full swing between them were evidence that they’d been there for a while. Kai seemed to be in the midst of whittling something and Perceval, the learned one, was writing something in the corner.

“Don’t you lot have some Woads to be killing?” he grumbled, but not ungratefully. He shifted uncomfortably, his shoulder hurt as badly now as when the wound was new.

Lancelot snorted. “We’re not the ones lying around in bed all day,” he said, but Gawain knew what he meant. The others made no move to leave either, just grinning at him. He let out a sigh, and resigned himself to a lot of enforced company over the next few weeks. He didn’t really mind, after all.

“Actually,” said Tristan, who had somehow appeared in the doorway, “Some of us do know how to do real work. I’m off, scouting for Arthur.”

“Where?”

“I think...I’ll go south. Stay well, Gawain. You-” Tristan pointed his knife at Galahad and Dagonet. “Look after him. Or else.” The Knight turned to go.

“Tris...” Gawain called, croakily. The Scout stopped.

“You know any Pictish?”

Galahad looked surprised. Tristan was inscrutable as usual.

“Some. Why?”

Gawain cleared his throat. “What does ‘Boothe carden’ mean?”

Tristan tilted his head slightly, in a way that reminded Gawain very much of Yseult.

“Why?” He asked, again.

Gawain twisted awkwardly in something that might have been a shrug if he had two functioning shoulders. “It’s what the Woads called me. Just wondered what it meant, that’s all.”

Tristan eyed him impassively for a moment, and then said;

“ _Buidhecarden._ More a description than a name, Gawain. It means ‘Yellow Hedge’.”

Tristan strode out of the room, leaving Lancelot and Bors nearly choking with laughter behind him. Gawain snorted in mock annoyance and closed his eyes with a smile. He’d never get tired of that sound.

The Knights stayed for the rest of the evening, and it was only when Arthur appeared and insisted they all leave him alone to get some sleep, and didn’t they have a mission tomorrow? that they finally stood up to go.

“Gawain,” Kai said, and Gawain started, opening his eyes. He’d almost drifted off.

“Yes?” The Knights were still there, watching the conversation.

“Listen, before we go, we just wanted to say...”

“We’re sorry!” Galahad blurted out.

“For what?” Gawain croaked, looking about, confused. The Knights shuffled, most refusing to meet his gaze.

“We left you,” said Lancelot, finally.

Gawain thought back to that journey from hell, the cold and the pain. He thought of how tired and afraid he was, and at first, how angry at being abandoned. Then he thought of those presences in the forest, the memories that had become real. The voices of his brothers; the wheedling and insulting voices, the encouraging and the determined. The figures that had pushed and supported him and dragged his sorry arse all the miles back to the wall. Gawain knew it might only have been fever that conjured them up, but that didn’t make them less real.

“No you didn’t,” he said with a smile. “You didn’t leave me. You were all right there, all along.”

 

 

 

 


	14. Epilogue (or Where The Heart Is)

 

It took two weeks of recovery before Gawain was well enough to even get out of bed, and he hated every second. Every day of weakness and pain, and every meal of thin stews instead of meat, water instead of wine. The other Knights slowly relaxed their constant presence at his bedside, though coming to terms with his return from the dead took a while. Gawain would often catch their glances in his direction before the watcher would quickly look away, and it was frustrating and comforting all at the same time.

After he was allowed to leave the infirmary, Gawain wandered the fort, while the others sparred and drank and went out on missions he was barred from. For the first week he was not alone, as Arthur too was on leave from active duty as his own injuries healed. They didn’t really talk about what had happened. There were too many emotions there to really be vocalised and too much knowledge that such circumstances could easily happen again, were almost inevitable.  This was just a reprieve, nothing more. Arthur brought up the subject only once, when Gawain was, unusually, called to his office in the _praetorium_. A watching centurion sat in a corner chair, and the Knight sensed that the trouble Arthur had been keeping at bay on his behalf had finally caught up.

“Gawain...” Arthur laid down the paper he held, and looked up. Only the fact that Gawain had known the man for four years helped him recognise the slight tension in the way Arthur moved, and it put him on the alert. The fact the Commander then addressed him in Latin was as good as an alarm bell. _“Thank you for coming. There are a couple of points I need to clarify about your...misadventure. Please, sit.”_

Gawain gave the watching centurion another glance and sat, uneasy. Clearly the Latin was for the Roman’s benefit. Whatever Arthur was discussing had to be witnessed.

“ _When you awoke in the valetudinarium, you told me that you were held captive by Woads, for a day and a night.”_

Gawain said nothing, waiting patiently. Arthur hadn’t asked anything yet. The Commander continued, cautiously.

_“There are Roman laws regarding contact with the enemy. Any soldier deemed to have fraternised with Woads or passed on information, even under torture, is considered treacherous to his garrison and is to be transferred and interrogated. You understand these laws?”_

Gawain answered, slowly. _“Yes. I understand.”_

Arthur nodded, and Gawain could tell he was phrasing his words very carefully. _“I want you to know that I trust you beyond question and there will never be a doubt in my mind as to your loyalty, as there should not be in any others'. However, I am asking you this because I have to. Did the Woads learn from you any sensitive information regarding this outpost?”_

_“No, Arthur. Nothing.”_

Arthur wrote something, and continued. _“In addition, Dagonet told me that your wounds had been stitched, and that you couldn’t have treated them yourself. Gawain, were you added by Woads?”_

The wound in his stomach throbbed painfully in response to the elevation of his heart rate, but there was nothing he could do about it. He trusted Arthur implicitly.

_“Yes.”_

The centurion shifted, but Arthur continued, quicker now. _“And to your knowledge, what did the Woad leaders intend to do with you before you escaped?”_

_“They were going to kill me.”_

_“When?”_

_“At dawn.”_

_“So their treatment of your wounds would have allowed you to survive until then?”_

Gawain nodded, but relief was already flowing through him. The questions had been perfectly phrased so that he neither had to lie, nor incriminate himself. He was glad Arthur had waited until the other Knights were all out patrolling; he doubted if any of his usual shadows would have been patient enough to let Arthur see this through.

_“One last question, Gawain. Apart from your physical injuries, did the contact you had with the Woads result in a situation that could compromise you in battle?”_

Gawain thought back to Rian and Fiachra, and the way they had saved his life. But he too had saved theirs. That debt was paid, on both sides. A clean slate, for whatever might come.

_“No,”_ he answered calmly, looking the centurion firmly in the eye.

Arthur nodded, scribbled one or two more lines, handing the paper to the other Roman. The smile he gave his Knight was relieved and genuine.

_“Thank you, Gawain. You may go.”_

It took Gawain longer than he would have liked to stand up, and by the time he’d limped to the door, the centurion had already left with the papers.

Arthur was waiting by the doorway, and as Gawain arrived, he grasped the Knight’s good shoulder tightly.

“I’m really glad you’re alright, Gawain.” He said, dark eyes serious.

Gawain smiled a little. “You too.”

Arthur nodded, and that was that.   
  


Except it wasn’t really, because the next evening Gawain couldn’t help but mention the dead, almost like a confession. Did Arthur remember Agravaine, and how unnaturally good he had been at finding his way? He was never lost, not once; it was as if he’d had a map laid out in his head that he never forgot. And did Arthur remember the way Dinaden used to call everyone “boy” even if they were older than him? And how Erec used to laugh, and the way Tor would to sneeze if he had to ride near the fields when they were harvesting? Arthur had listened to the memories as they poured out from him, just little things, odd characteristics of those long gone. Things the Knights all remembered but never, ever spoke of. And then Arthur had said, yes, he missed them too, and then he and Gawain had quietly toasted their dead brothers long into the dawn.

Gawain welcomed that easy companionship while it lasted, but within a week, Arthur was fit enough to ride with the Knights again, and Gawain was left once more on his own. For the other Knights, Arthur’s return was a sign life was returning to normal. For Gawain, it meant a lot of time to think.

Tristan was still on his mission and the Knights were out chasing down bandits that were harassing local villages, when a messenger arrived with news of General Arpagius, the Roman bastard that had caused everything in the first place.  Gawain felt a little panicked; Rome would recall Arthur for a hearing or something and the Knights would be split up and sent off across the Empire and...And why did the thought of that bother him so much? Servitude here or anywhere else was still servitude. It was still not Sarmatia. Home. But even the thought of returning to the Black Sea was not as comforting as it once was.  
  
  


The sight of Vanora appearing round the corner of the building carrying a basket of clothes broke his melancholy thoughts. Vanora. Wonderful, fiery Vanora. Lover of Bors and, whatever Lancelot claimed, a sister to the other Knights (and more often than not a mother as well).

 He smiled at her as she approached, and quickly moved his hand away from pressing his healing wound. “Vanora. You look stunning today, my fairy...”

She snorted, seeing the movement. “Gawain, you’re looking shitty today, my boy.”

He huffed a laugh.

“You really know how to make a person feel special, Van...”

“Take it like a man, Gawain.”

She sat down beside him in the pale sunlight, fussing with the angle of his sling. He let her.

“Did you hear the news?”

 “The messenger from Arpagius?” He shook his head.

“He’s still talking with Arthur, but the word is out. The Roman general is dead.”

Gawain breathed out, slowly. “He couldn’t have made it to Rome...”

Vanora shook her head. “Never even got to _Eboracum_. Someone said Saxons got him. But the messenger’s guard said his horse was attacked by a hawk and threw him.”

A hawk...Gawain met her eyes, sharply, remembering the words he’d heard that Tristan had uttered _; “You deserve to die for what you did today.”_ Could he have...?

He saw the same question on her face, but neither of them put words to it. They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Vanora sighed.

“They’re good men, Gawain. I didn’t like what happened to them when you were gone.” She turned to him, intent and angry. “Don’t you bloody dare do that again. You hear me?”

Gawain didn’t meet her eyes, looking away. The setting sun was lengthening the shadows across the courtyard. Evening was drawing close. “You know I can’t promise that, Vanora. None of us can. Not me, not Bors, not even Arthur.” He sighed, but smiled a little ruefully. “Death will catch us all up in the end.”

“I know,” she said, and brushed his cheek where the wolf’s claws had left their mark. “Just...try not make it too soon, okay?”

A gust of chill wind whistled through the yard, and they both shivered a little. “Better get moving. I’m expecting eight or nine empty stomachs on legs to return any time now, and there’s nothin’ ready to eat yet.” Vanora gave Gawain’s mop of hair an affectionate tug. “You should come inside the tavern brother; you’ll catch your death out here.”

“Stop fussing, woman,” he grumbled. “Or it’s you who’ll be the death of me.”

Ignoring him, she pulled a blanket from the basket at her feet and wrapped it round Gawain’s shoulders.  He grumbled again a little just for show, but Vanora wasn’t fooled. Laughing, she walked away to the tavern.  
  
  


As predicted, the Knights returned not an hour later, and the quiet was broken by laughs and yells and teasing as Gawain was soon being given an enthusiastic retelling of Bors’s complete inability to shoot a bow. The ale and wine flowed, and an hour later Arthur joined them, followed by Tristan who’d also just returned from the south. Gawain watched him carefully, but Tristan kept all his secrets well and responded to his glance with a nod of greeting and silence.

It was in that moment, as the tavern settled into its usual nightly routine that Gawain finally came to a realisation. His hallucination had been telling him the truth, all those weeks ago.

_“Come,”_ The Arthur of his mind had said. _“You are nearly home,”_ and he hadn’t meant Sarmatia.

 This place of death and suffering and fog and snow had taken them in as children and forged them into the men they were now. Even if they’d grown up twisted, bloodstained, they’d grown up here, in the rain and the mists and the trees of Britain. But more importantly, they’d grown up here as brothers. Could they willingly walk away from that? For years, the thought of ‘home’ had kept them fighting, kept them living, and winning. For Perceval and for Galahad, the youngest of them, the illusion was still powerful enough, but it was still just a dream. But Gawain felt old, and the vision of ‘home’, that fantasy of safety and comfort, was seeping from him like blood from a wound. When Vanora sang about home, he was sure he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t thinking about horizons of barely remembered Sarmatian grass, but of the faces of those who now lay under mounds on the hillside. If blood justified your claim to the land, then the blood of enough good Knights had been spilled here to own this island three times over. Home. Not where you were born, or where your ancestors lived, but where your heart is, and your passion and everything you live for. That was where he wanted to be.

Gawain watched the scene of friendly chaos that only ever occurred at the tavern, and quietly revelled in every sensation that came with it. He watched Bors rocking baby Eight, unaware of Gilly and Two crawling silently under the table to tie Jols’ boot laces together. He smelled wine, leather grease and woodsmoke, meat, straw and horses, and far away, the distant scent of pines in the wilderness. He heard Kai saying something to Lancelot that made him nearly choke with laughter; two children ran after a dog, and a woman’s scolding voice cut the air. Gawain watched Dagonet talking quietly with Arthur over a map, and heard the Commander sigh, but contentedly, and the torchlight glinted off the hilt of Excalibur, back at its rightful place at his hip.

Gawain turned his gaze inwards too; noticed the bitter taste of numbing herbs on his tongue that went hand-in-hand with the dull ache of wounds that were finally healing. The skin of his back tingled slightly where the warmth of the torchlight clashed against the cold of the autumn breeze that sighed over the Wall from the north, and he pulled the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. He heard the rattle of gaming pieces on wood as Tristan and Perceval ganged up to win against Ector, and the Knight mocked their fleeting success with sharp wit. Somewhere inside the tavern, Vanora was singing. The wind gusted a little more and Gawain smelled the sharp bite winter on the air, and finally, his eyes fell on the last Knight in the company and he saw Galahad watching him. The young man stood and wove his way through the crowd, sitting quietly down beside his friend.

“Gawain? You alright?”

_We will go home..._

Gawain smiled at Galahad and nodded, blue eyes bright with contentment.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m alright.”

He could never go home. He was already there.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends. Let me know if you enjoyed it.  
> Thank you for reading, friends!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for coming on this adventure. Feedback is love.


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